Weddingbee

I’ve been spending some time looking for ceremony readings lately. I’ve found some beautiful pieces, but it seemed like there was something missing. I didn’t know what it was, really. I just knew there was something I wanted to express to Mr. LB, but couldn’t find captured anywhere. So I sat down and wrote it myself.

To frame it, all you have to know (and that which you might know already) is that I’m a big, wordy, too-well-read-for-her-own-good geek, who sometimes can unintentionally come off uppity about her educational background. That, and the subject of romance - and romantic gestures - is one of some sensitivity between us. As in, every so often I become convinced that Mr. Lovebug isn’t being enough of a knight in shining armor and needs to take Wooing 101. Sometimes I’m right about this…and sometimes I’m wrong. Funny how that works.

I want Mr. Lovebug to know, though, that he shows me his love in the every day domesticity of our life together. That while I sometimes give him a hard time about not being the guy that springs opera tickets and champagne while on a sunset hot air balloon ride, at the end of the day, I know he treasures me. The little things, you know? And I wanted something that captures OUR little things, specifically.

Anyway, it’s filled with punnage, literary and pop references galore, and stylistic chaos. Pure me, in other words.

Love in the Time of Coleridge

Sweetie, you don’t know Wordsworth
worth a damn.

And it’s a good thing we don’t love in the time of Coleridge,
because the Romantics aren’t what I like about you.

I don’t wear a bonnet while you recite sonnets
in perfect Petrarchan pitch.

So let’s dispense with Spenser and let Byrons be Byrons
and I’ll tell you simply why I’m here.

It’s the bunnies, honey, and how you chop their carrots.
I don’t need Shakespeare, dear, when you whisper in my ear
that yes, you’ll run my errands so I can sleep an hour here

in our room made dark as umber
to protect my fragile slumber.

You indulge me, every day. You support me, in every way.
The thoughtfulness and precision with which you prepare
my afternoon tea would put Dante and his quill to shame.

Really. Beatrice or be your bride? I’ve clearly the better deal.

And while we’re at it, have I told you how awesome it is
when you bring me a bowl of cold blackberries while I’m in a hot bath? That’s poetry.

You can’t buy a gumball with a five dollar word. And blowing bubbles is more fun than parsing a stanza on an itchy picnic blanket.

And though roses are red and violets are blue, your sweet crooked smile
is all I need from you.
Only this, and nothing more.
Quoth your maven, evermore.

———————

I don’t know that anyone will even get all of it. But it doesn’t matter. I wrote it for me, and for my husband, and I know it’s meaningful because I started to tear up just writing it. Crazy, right? Just a silly little poem, and I got all choked up.

Think I could practice it enough to be able to read it to him without crying? Or should I hand it over to a friend so I can hear it and enjoy it as well?

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