A Poem for my Wife on Her Birthday, 2010

A maelstrom of toxins marches

inward from the periphery:

you are vigilant with science

and slash with superstition

at their watery bellies.


Inanity and anxiety form the bunker

that stays the toxins’ plunder;

into it shafts of Wonder

often enough break (interrupting

our apotropaic haste),

and seed the packed earth

with Wondrous mirth

only patience and charity can grow.

Yet we bicker away

and lay waste the day


this bright fragile shoot remains whole


my negligence, fear, and small soul.


Still, our accusations, from poisoned eyes,

we’ve poured as cement, and have trapped ourselves in.

Should we accuse self-ward, our hearts would rise,

and cease from those labors that so fray and thin

the tapestry to which our story’s applied,

to see the Horizon concealed by the din

of the blinding, dull warfare our sins have devised:

a weightless Beginning, an Eternal Spring

within a chorus of martyrs.

One thought on “A Poem for my Wife on Her Birthday, 2010

  1. Pingback: Bridges, V | Into the Clarities

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