Our Artifact of Divinity

I have never risen with the sun,

taken the day,

or joined the winged throngs of birds that proclaim morning,

or given thanks for every first lifting of tired eyes

to the newness of the day

like I have since you have been my wife.

 

For morning always brought with it,

the dark and baleful scorn of possibilities,

of dreams dashed and disappointments festering

for the whole of one short life.

I never broke the day open,

like an fresh farm egg on a skillet

and prepared with with care

and enjoyment,

in fact,

I don’t think I broke my fast at all.

 

The day was always a savage and worrisome nemesis,

a tattletale peeking over my shoulder,

vile accuser, spitting vitriol and bile

bitter to the taste and soft and bumpy to the touch,

like a cold, dead frog.

Oh, how I loathed most days,

but by strangest fortune,

 in them I discovered that I did not wait to die,

but met in some inspired moment

one who made the day,

not only bearable,

but a fine thing indeed.

 

Now,

by the first light of day,

in the long days of summer

and by the lamplight in the hallway,

in the short days of winter;

I see your face,

asleep beside me.

The picture of peace and serenity,

beautiful as the world can make,

by my measure

and I am humbled to the point of shame.

 

I was never one to seek the day,

but now I wake to conquer each one anew.

Those old disgruntled spirits,

have, for the most part,

left me in my state of purpose,

driven by the serene angel

whose face graces the first waking moments

of each day.

 

There are no adequate words

to describe love,

for love is the antithesis of words.

Love is more than thought and intent,

it is more than act and purpose,

it is what causes these things to be.

It is the spark of creation,

an artifact of our divine lineage.

 

HG – 2016

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