A Poem for Love, for Danielle

A man once said, "Language was invented for one reason, boys—to woo women..." Whether this man was real or merely an invention matters not. Whether he only exists as a character of the imagination, or aswalking, breathing creature like you or I—a congregation of various vibrating grains, like a glittering sand castle whose proud spires are born to a destiny written in some inevitable wave or some approaching, dark cloud filled heavy with rain...and, well, some sandcastles reign with such beauty and grace in this life, Danielle, that some of us feel, deeply, desperately, the need to invent: especially us men. It's a fool's errand, perhaps, but we start by inventing ourselves, as best as we can, but when that's not enough, we invent poetry—flowery words, thoughts, songs—sweet figs of the imagination that we hope to imbue with the grains of truth, little seeds to better blossom our expression of love, knowing, all the while, that our little games and efforts of delusion falter and pale next to the real light of the women in our lives, to the wives we never deserved, but that we hail with adorning pride, like paltry jewels and diamonds that could never compare to you, Danielle, no treasure or bauble that a man could procure could ever imitate or repay what you do, what you give to your family, could lead with love, could commit and fulfill to carrying your life's body of work to fruition, even in the face of life's ever-coming waves...and though this poem be just one more foolish attempt by men to repay you for who you are and what you do, one more morsel of imagination contending against the elements, and time, to immortalize a woman we love in vain... This precious seed we plant is true Your husband loves you, dearly. Danielle.