Poetry Wednesday, Vol. 53

Nine years ago today we were married. At his grandparents' place, next to a soybean field, surrounded by those we love. It was a happy day, followed by many happy years.

There are many poems the husband has sent me over the years, many I would love to post here in honor of this day. But there are a few things best kept private. He is now breathing a sigh of relief, that I am not spilling everything out into internet world.

For today, I stumbled upon a perfect love poem. One that expresses all that he means to me.
Happy Anniversary my love.

Litany


by Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine . . . Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley,
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I am not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.