Ours.

Like two birds intertwined

You at the center

Me at the circumference

Our line of sight being

The ever-guiding force

That binds us together…

Ours wasn’t that kind.

Ours wasn’t the kind

That leads to aisles

Or leads to babies

Or leads to

Seventy-year-old couple stories

Although I thought It was.

Although you wished it was.

Although we prayed it was.

Ours wasn’t the kind

That strengthens through the thick-and-thin

That smiles through the storm of distance

That threatens the tide of time.

Ours was the kind,

That lasts for a season.

The season that reveals the rust

Covering our innermost gold.

The season that preps for the

Purging hand of the blacksmith.

Ours was the kind that preps

For the benefactor

That was given the ten talents.

Ours was the kind that made us

Shake our hands in the sky and ask what

Was imperfect.

Ours was the kind that opened

Our eyes

Into

Knowing

That

We

Deserved

Not

What

We

Thought

We

Deserved

But

What

The

Maker

Wills

Instead.

So on that porchy Sunday afternoon,

That your son asks you about that love

That wasn’t given the grace to be…

Tell him ours wasn’t the kind to separate the chaff from the grain.

Tell him ours was the kind that sowed the seeds instead.

The kind that made you predict the weather wrong.

The kind that made you grow.

And on that cold and dry Sunday afternoon,

I’ll tell my daughter that the love now,

The love with her father,

Is the kind.

The kind one’d think

They’d never have

Because they were blinded

By the sights that we saw.

The love now,

Is what we’d thought we had.

The love now beat ours ten folds down.

Because the love now

Was what the blacksmith designed from the beginning of time.