"Anniversary Visit"

As my wife Pam and I celebrate our wedding anniversary on this date, I thought today might be the perfect moment to remind readers of “Anniversary Visit,” a poem that appears in Seeded Light, released this year by Turning Point Books.

Although the exactness of the word ten in the final line obviously becomes more inaccurate with every passing year, I’m pleased to note that the original inspirational passions with which the poem was written, as well as the enduring emotions of affection and understanding the two of us have shared, remain true to this day. Indeed, those feelings have continued to grow over time, as we have become even better companions for one another and discovered much greater purpose through our roles as parents for Alex.

Moreover, like those cottages near the end of the piece, rather than distanced by time, we seem to become so much closer every year of our marriage; for that I count myself blessed, and I am thankful on this special occasion, as well as every other day.

Therefore, on this anniversary I again revisit “Anniversary Visit” and dedicate it to Pam, once more walk that perpetual path of garden blossoms within the poem—those brilliant constellations of intensely colorful flowers, like our love, always appearing in bloom.

ANNIVERSARY VISIT

Tonight, my wife and I will arrive again at that inn
. . . . . we first visited a decade ago. Nestled into a high rise

beside the river, its balconies stretch out, as if gliding
. . . . . over the slow-flowing waters below, and in morning

their shadows will reach across to the other shore
. . . . . like black boxes stacked on an Ad Reinhardt abstract.

We will walk a path that parts the garden flowers,
. . . . . so orderly arranged with constellations of violet

and pink blossoms separated from others of red
. . . . . and yellow. We will speak once more of that week

now long gone and about those late afternoons
. . . . . when we had slept with tangled legs in a hammock

sagging under the twisting limbs of shade trees.
. . . . . We will seek out those same old signposts along

an upper trail, which yet creases the hillside, leads
. . . . . to that distant peak with its white curve of waterfall

jutting just above us. Through our field glasses,
. . . . . the geometry of far-off farmlands will appear near

and take on shapes similar to the puzzle pieces
. . . . . our son loves to fit together when we are at home.

We will look back at that cluster of cottages
. . . . . from another age still filling the village in the valley,

and of course, they’ll also seem so much closer.
. . . . . And then we will pretend we are ten years younger.


—Edward Byrne