Monday, September 14, 2015

per annum (we are what we've got)




























how many days are in a year?
how much good can come, mornings dawn,
fresh arrivals take their place.
the soul can have a thousand dark nights an hour;
how many nights are in a year?

One year and we're still going. All the world in tumult,
and here we sit, hands clasped across the table,
holding on because  we are what we've got
to hold on to. How much us can fit here?

Too much, as it seems.
But, too much is ours to take, ours to wear, ours to name:

our love is big,
the good choice our vows became.

I would carve it out again for you;
this thing that's started us, continued us, tried us,
winned us, and held us in its grip: this year, our first.
our bests, our worsts, and as the world rained,
our home, and the places we ran to.
All of this is ours now, to keep and process, live
and leave behind, or carry close. This year is ours now.

And you, love,
you are mine.


Walt Whitman said it, and said it best:
We were together, I forget the rest.