My wife is out of town right now. It sucks, but it's funny what they say about how absence makes the heart grow fonder. Last Saturday night there was an art festival, where some people got up and sang. One guy wrote a song, and the lyrics weren't even coherent. Nevertheless, a phrase he said inspired me to write a little bit of poetry for my wife. Remember, I'm not the best of poets, but I do my best. This one's not really made to rhyme, but more to be read out loud. Hopefully she'll have the chance to read this where she is, and will know how much I love her.
They say our life is a collection of stories -- a book, so to speak, that gets thicker every day.
Some pages are stuck together, glued shut by mistakes we have made.
We don't speak about those days and are content to just turn the page.
On some pages we've got doodles -- margins filled with ink and funny shapes.
They are punctuations on ordinary lives, interesting things that a good life makes.
When read, they remind us who we are. When recalled, they cause smiles to cross our faces.
On still other pages there are pictures, each one worth a thousand words.
Words alone can't tell those stories. They remind us of our lifelong loves.
Some in color, others black and white. Some are worn and smeared by tears.
For me, my book is like any other, but my early pages are written in blue.
I've got doodles galore, poetry to keep, stuck pages that hide my past and it's truths.
But of all the pages in the book of my life, every page worth reading has pictures of you.
Fine: be that way, Mr. Raccoon.
1 day ago