Shape and Substance

Monday, 9 December 2024, was the thirty-fourth anniversary of the day Patricia Ann Thiede promised before God and a few intrepid witnesses to be my wife, and I her husband. We have been at it ever since, and I am the better for it.

A few years ago, I wrote this poem as a celebration of another couple’s anniversary, so it is not autobiographical. I wound up not using this poem as my gift to them, and writing a different one. But something about this first effort, until now unpublished, has always had a place in my heart. So, as I think about anniversaries as they mount up in increasing number, I offer this poem as a reflection on what it means to be married to someone a long time.

Still Here

At least in the beginning, they were two—

strong, independent, not of one root or ring.

Yet in their own peculiar way, they chose

to lean against each other as if to form

a sort of makeshift shelter from the storm,

limbs bearing up each other’s faltering weight.

They wrapped about their parabolic trunks

a robe of something that resembles hope.

For the time being, and until tomorrow,

they said,

Here we are.

Growing made them pull against each other.

Scraping bark and cracking fragile branches

report their protest in the frosty silence.

Impatiently they strain for sun, for air,

the price each pays to grow in its own light.

Yet force of something that resembles loyalty

bound them even then to one another

until at last they looked at one another,

and said,

There you are.

They seemed to know without acknowledgement

they were creating space, an empty place

where seeds could germinate ‘til winds could take them,

But seeds must weather their own fates and fortunes

in realms apart, and under different suns.

So, one by one, seeds flew and left behind

a space for something that resembles longing.

The empty place was empty once again,

and emptiness the answer to their yearning.

They asked,

Where are you?

Around them all these years have seasons changed

‘til now, though at increasing pace. They learned

to dress themselves in colors not their own,

hues that fade in fading light, will fall

like disregarded shawls from sloping shoulders.

Still, they wear them proudly while the sun shines,

a cloak of something that resembles grace,

as though to any neighboring bird or beast

they say,

Here we are.

Grace and peace and Godspeed to all who brave the treacherous currents of marriage and climb the far bank safe and, if not whole, then well. I am grateful beyond words to be among your number.