I can’t remember a day I did not love her.
I can’t describe the way she takes a big bite out of me
I can’t imagine a day without her beaming down, she shines.
I can’t believe how she’s shared with me all her charms.

I’m not sure I could live my life without her.
I’m not afraid, I just don’t seem to grasp her sense of being free
I’m not surprised, you’d know it if you saw her like I do.
I’m not believing how easily she has tamed me. She has tamed me.

She has a plan, and I can’t help but follow.
She understands, she guides, she leads, she clearly sets my course.
She never tells me just what she thinks, she believes I know.
She just keeps going, and showing me my better self, she is my source.

I know that there’s no one that knows me better.
I’ll never stop until I’m sure she’s fully in my life.
I’ll never understand just why she loves me - but she does.
I’ll never stop celebrating the day she stepped in - and became my wife.



I Can’t

“Oh look, Po. There are two magpies… One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five for silver, Six for gold, Seven for a secret never to be told…”

Joan had taken me along with her to forage for nettle. Along the old head wherein the sinking of the Lusitania had occurred, on the small, peninsular road with a beach and a lonesome stone fortification on one side of it, and on the other side, in the distance, past those black and white cows contentedly grazing in a meadow, a wayward ship was headed somewhere. 

Carrying a pair of sturdy gloves atop her woven basket and her two pairs of cutting shears, along a 5,000 year old wall of built of uneven stones with wild yellow primrose peeking out from the layered shale, a ladybug rambled; she had pointed out to me briar thorns and rising upward hawthorn bramble, sorrel, sea spinach and raw dandelions (the latter I had no taste at all for, whilst the former were quite remarkable and wholly palatable). 

Along the chilly road, pointing to the fading and shimmering reflection of light upon the waves, she’d said to me something to the effect, “That’s the sun walking on water.” I’d said to her that it looked like these were wise old walls.

Buckets of Rain

Bob Dylan