We are wed in sleeplessness,
It is our "poorer," our "sickness,"
While "richer" and "health"
Last thirty minutes.
But this is still, indeed, a wedding,
Albiet uneven, some vow-words
Scrawled large, others in tiny print,
Others with invisible ink.
The heaviest words take form,
Alphabetic anvils bear down
On our gentle frames; we toughen.
Make us gentle again, O Lord.
Wing in the flocks of little words
The ornaments of love, unweighed
The feathered promises, so light
You need not ask us to obey.
(words found in my inbox after a night of little sleep, an ever crying baby, anger and misunderstandings...and then I sat with tears in my eyes because of how he loves me.)