I was in the eighth grade
When my friend and I,
Decided to go from Seattle
To Lynden, to pick strawberries.
We were both Boy Scouts
With back packs and sleeping bags.
We left our homes
On this wonderous journey,
By hitchhiking, up North, on old 99.
We arrived in Lynden, later that day
And were told "no strawberries";
it was the end of the season.
We turned around, noting our plight
And slept in a Bellingham field that night.
Back to our homes, we then went
And noticed that green bean picking
Would be another event.
But that is another story.

I awoke this morning.
Good news for me.
It's always good,
When awake, you see
The most beautiful face,
Laying next to me.
I love you so,
My dearest one.
No day is right
Until it is begun,
With you, in my life,
Where all is true
For a beautiful wife.
I do, so love you..

The words hang heavy
over my head,
pressing firmly,
around my neck,
weighing me down.
Without uttering a sound,
I have drowned,
in my silence.

(a little re-write from 12/2017)

A lonely tear, slides down my cheek
as I think of this life of ours.
It pains me when recalling you,
now the tear has become two.
I am not weeping, there is no more.
Just the tick of a clock.