This is a poem written for a friend who suggested the title, "Glory."
I know glory.
Once, fruit of my mother, we bloomed to soft meadow breezes,
bees bowed to our offerings.
With time, we withered.
She dropped me to the ground. Her body followed, draped over me, entwined in dead grass.
I hardened, and icy storms pushed me further into darkness.
By and by, lovers came—warmth and water, sun and rain.
Life inside swelled, skin softened and stretched
Next, a crack—a breach bearing life, or death.
Slim, white tendril fingered down, grabbed hold of decay.
Outstretched, rooted and hungry, I muscled up through crust
My face unfurled to sky, gasping, glory.
This is a poem custom written (considering their interests, occupations and history,) for one spouse to another, on their anniversary.
If love is information,
Revelation started forty years past—my better-half.
Like Muir on his knees before the glacial meadow,
I was born then.
Plunged into alpine waterfall,
My first breaths of interface mist,
Systems awoke, algorithms emerged.
RV’s, Kiwis, health care, airfare,
Wet boots, wedding suits, and boys, boys, boys.
The still lake quiet, the thunderous noise.
We evolved, spirits scrubbed as river stones.
The mountains are calling, and I must go.
Your elevations exhilarating, your hollows, my comfort.