Letter to Friend On His Upcoming Wedding
My Epistle entry at the June 12 Pentathlon.
My Dear Friend,
Tell me: can you see that keen bumble bee
Alighting itself on a flower,
And pray, do you see the flower when she
Looks up in that early dawn hour;
Yes, you’ve seen the skies through your weary eyes,
How clear and blue they come bowing
To kiss well the trees and the edges of seas
Whenever the weather’s allowing.
Well, forget all that!
You’ll be married in a fortnight, it will never be the same,
So be merry now and let your heart to sing,
When you see that blasted bee, trust me, all that you will see
Is a buzzing blob of yellow with a sting.
And each flower that is born is a reason for a thorn,
And the early morning air won’t be so still
When you see your day is planned, you’ll be putty in her hand,
Losing every day a kilo of your will.
When you look up at the sky, you’ll invariably spy
Clouds of grey and every other darkness form,
And the trees, they will (it’s true) be those things that block the view
While the seas become an omen for a storm.
Then you’ll tell yourself it’s love that takes all of the above
And just blends it all into one toxic smoothie.
Drink it up, you poor fool; do it while it is still cool,
Every drop you drink will die proclaiming you the
But now, if you hang in there, you will see the day you swear
That the jackass in you is a broadway act,
For there comes to every man that approaches half his span
Knowledge of this one invaluable fact:
Be her destiny, her love, be her “all of the above”,
All it costs you is one stinkin’ ounce of tact.