hubby and I on our wedding day, April 1983
You may read the companion memoir vignette here on Poetry Soup: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/the_thornback_and_the_red_headed_man_13597
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I found your silence first—not the hush of snowfall or stopped clocks, but the raw unraveling of a symphony mid-note, the bow still hovering above the strings. What composes you? Not the obvious: not the freckles like tossed pennies, not the laugh that cracks like thin ice. Deeper—the way your shadow hesitates at doorways, as if it remembers a threshold it once couldn’t cross. Your hands are not just hands: they are the aftermath of holding on, the creases where light lingers like a rumor in an empty room. I trace them, learning the braille of all you’ve clenched and released. Sometimes, I catch you staring at the spaces between things~ the pause before a downpour, the breath a mirror steals when it forgets your face. You are the almost, the not quite, the symphony that never resolves. And yet~ when you turn to me, unfinished, I swear I hear the music begin again, and I fall in love with you all over again.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
