I SEE HER for what she is — uneven, a runaway three-line poetry. Lesser minds have plunged her depths only to break the surface with questioning faces. All these years they never understood for they saw her differently, an odd number in the realm of pairs and parallelisms. She was often measured, but in their eyes she never rhymed. Her posture recited no theme, her voice sang no song. In the company of tall tales and verbose prose, she fell short of how they wanted her to be — like a radiant flowing verse in a river that rises and fades with the tides. I still crave for the right word to define her meaning. She has defined mine.
But I will hold on to her poetry for as long as these aching bones and weary heart will allow. I will hold on to her even when I know she will never fill me the way others can, because every word she speaks justifies my being. My fibers ache to be emblazoned by her name, her brazen self, and dream that history will read her for what she is and not for what she ought to have become. Help them read between the lines.
Indeed, all that’s good in life is brief and apart, like the prominent lines of the heart of a poem, disjointed yet mysteriously connected, defining and, therefore, expectedly alone. What the heart pours into words and when words turn into sword, she will never bleed to my sharp edges.
I see her for what she is to me. She is my Alpha and my Omega, my quiet night and my glorious day. She is the sunshine on my shoulders, the rain on my hair, my seasons of the year. And with all the labors of her birth and rendition, I bear the scars of her completion.
For she is forever my haiku, my 5-7-5. And I, the paper that enfolds her.
(for a most beautiful rose)