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Tulips & Clockwork

posted Feb 14, 2019, 10:22 AM by Colleen Getty   [ updated Feb 14, 2019, 10:32 AM ]
Not everybody is a fan of Valentine's Day, but I have an affinity for flowers and chocolate, bubbly drinks and poetry. Also, it's a good excuse to tell people I care about that I care about them, that I'm thinking of them, that I appreciate what they're trying to do in life. That means, for me, anybody from kids to teachers to mothers to friends could be the intended target depending on the day, the mood, the time. So, that's how I see today: a good reminder to try to do one or two random acts of kindness to tell someone you are thinking of them.

However, I also still subscribe to the old-fashion notion of romance. In a day and age when "talking" means "dating" I'd be dating everybody if that was the case. I talk a lot. So, I need something a bit bolder when it comes to letting my main squeeze know I love him. Whatever happened to grand romantic gestures?! I think they're still around. Anyway, I LOVE my husband and since my blog is the biggest (and most economical way--hey I'm not a millionaire) to tell him I love him, I thought I would. I love poetry. I love that it makes you dig deep. It makes you distill. It encourages you to share. Share goes!

In this busy world, I decided to sit down, stop everything, and write a poem just for my husband, George. He deserves a custom poem. Happy Valentine's Day, Love.

Disclaimer: If you don't like cheesy, turn away. If you don't like romance, turn away. If you're not a fan of poetry, this is not for you--go watch someone do something ill-advised on YouTube. Consider yourself warned:)

Tulips and Clockwork

Brushing past me—
a whisper.
Without words
not a sound. Stretching
with color
and confident strength.
An example
of how beautiful simple can be
calming
whispering to me
silently
filling me
up and up and away—
from dark and cold and gray.
Nature’s patient wisdom
has won the day.
Lines, clean but believable—arch.
A link
between here and heaven
keeps gears turning,
clasping together,
kissing deeply and then
arms wide letting go
to bide time
turning, churning so very far.
Then, one tic closer,
one toc beyond.
We go—
on and on and around.
Up and down. High and low. Full and empty. Waiting.
For that next whisper to brush beside us.
That next gear to pull us in, and cling desperately.
Even if—
just for a moment.