Birch

Every year, Rob has given me an anniversary poem written on that year’s symbol: the first year, it was paper - pretty traditional. The second year, it was inked onto a beautiful piece of cotton, and the third, etched leather.

The fourth year, the poetry was an adorable baby wrapped in soft linens.

This was the year for wood, so my gift Friday was painstakingly carved onto a lovely piece of birch. Here’s the poem:

Birch

We weathered a dry summer that’s for sure.
The grass yellowed, the earth began to crack
in places, and the air even felt foreign-
an invader from some remote despot
sent to take our very breath as fealty.

A thirsty tree, the birch, its roots go deep
in such times, but also out twixt others
in its stand, and sometimes you’ll see two fused
seemingly at their base, where some dry time
in treey youth conspired them to join.

Married for five amazing years, to the most interesting man alive...a blessed woman I am!