43 Years and Holding

    Forty three years ago today, Reed and I got married. Even though I tell people we married in infancy (actually we were both 20), that makes us officially old, possibly even geezers. In honor of the occasion, I would like to repost this poem about the night we first confessed our love.

 The Rustling

It was the first time she had declared her love

the first time she had even felt

its strange stirring of her heart.

She was half delighted, half dismayed

with the wonderful, but vulnerable feeling.

The setting was classically romantic

an Oregon hillside at sunset.

They stood soaking in all the vivid sensations,

most were unfamiliar, but one

seemed distinctly out of place

a rustling.

In the tall grasses, not too far away, was

a rustling.

Despite their overwhelming, almost scripted, drive

to gaze into each other’s eyes

they couldn’t help but glance around, looking for

the rustling.

It was almost dusk, the time when nocturnal

creatures begin to stir.

Finally, between the gazing and the holding

and all the things love awakens and begins to stir,

they saw the source of

the rustling,

a skunk.

Hand in hand they ran

down the hill,

tall grasses rustling—

but not for the first time.