I wrote this poem about my beautiful bride of soon to be 17-years on her birthday.
Waiting to Be Found
I don’t know why
God smiled on me that day.
It was like every other day.
I needed caffeine to stay awake.
The sun rose,
the ocean roared,
salt sprayed,
and devoted people
crossed themselves to pray.
Crickets,
miniature Mozarts,
orchestra kings of the night,
chirped as they did in ancient times,
playing their green violins.
The sun flashed across the skyline,
then fell like a gold nugget
into the deep,
amassing a treasure within.
We sat inside,
an infinity apart,
working diligently
as we crammed words onto a page,
rhythmic words that ride beams of light,
projecting their own hue of glory.
I watched you walk across the café.
Every step hypnotized me.
You exuded confidence
like one of Zeus’s thunderbolts
and beauty, oh greatness,
beauty that rivaled the cause
of the Trojan War—
Helen of Sparta’s passionate revolt.
I wasn’t the only one you seduced;
you wrapped a Starbucks’s spotlight
around your finger.
Proud and proper,
you cinched Orion’s Belt
to walk across the stars
and pay me a closer look.
I sat alone like an orphan,
waiting to be found.
You glided,
feet hardly touching the ground.
A ballad poured from your lips.
A porcelain pitcher tilted and spoke.
My cup overflowed
when you said, “Hello.”
You called for me
and I awoke.
I’m so glad you did.
Your understanding smile
cracked the moon,
placing the highest bid.
All others before you
lacked the combination
to this vandalized locker.
Once we met
the levee broke;
my ocean rippled
into a serene sea.
I called my best friend
to tell him,
“I finally found ‘er.”
Or better yet,
“She found me.”