I enjoyed my internet sabbath immensely. I posted around 11:00 p.m. Saturday night,
and did not log back onto the internet again until about 30 minutes ago. Laura and I
enjoyed our Lord’s Day together, working together in the yard, eating well and reading by
That said, here is a poem I wrote, called “Liars”:
Love’s supposed sages –
the poets and the novelists –
have bastardized what they grasp for;
making it into, or, more
correctly, defining it as
as a mystical instant, an ethereal haze
of indescribable “know it
when you feel it” something which
exists only within their pages.
They are liars.
For: love exists; but not
as they say, because it can be defined,
closely and concretely;
verbalized in the strictest sense—
In specific ways, which, simply, are love itself
with, or without, the instability of butterflied emotion.