17 November 2013
Poetry. I suppose that’s the only way to describe it; sitting on the porch, watching the sun sink slowly behind you while the big, yellow moon swings above the opposite horizon, losing circumference as it gains altitude. It’s the birds singing their goodnights from tiny branches atop trees. The smell of wet earth after two days of rain and that crystal clear sky after all the impurities that accompany a drought-ridden sky are washed away.
Poetry is dancing with your wife in your kitchen that is not nearly as clean and perfect as the movies; the slight feel of grit under your bare feet and fresh bread on the cutting board. Holding her close and floating in circles while Over the Rhine’s “I Want You To Be My Love” plays softly from your phone on the countertop and your two Great Danes stretched out on the cool tiles looking on with disinterest.
Kind of hard to believe that 48 years ago, American troops were fighting for their lives half a world away in the Ia Drang Valley. My heart goes out to all the wives whose dance was replaced with a telegraph and a life forever changed.
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