This is fictional poetry. But maybe it’s the tiniest bit autobiographical, in the sense that I’m amazed at this mixture of marriage and parenting. How the different loves manage to mix up with each other and complement rather than compete.

We met there,
among the flowers
the first time

and then again
not long after

I thought it was a nice coincidence

of course, it wasn’t that long

until, surrounded by
the fresh pale of green
and early crocuses
we said those life-changing, life-melding words:
”I do.”

we planted flowers of our own
around the house
and on the hill
we carried them to friends
and breathed in their scent

you never picked a favorite

(you always said you’d just
pick me)

until she came along…
and loved you
with little wilted weeds

and then – I think you chose…



Dandelions always make me think of 2-year-old Wesley, bringing me short-stemmed yellow flowers all summer long. They make me miss that little curly-haired cutie.


About ruthie.voth

Wife of one, mother of four, friend of many. Lover of details, color, good conversations, finding balance, and being honest. Passionate lover of a well-crafted sentence - even more so if it's witty. Weird blend of cynical optimist. I'm the worst kind of woman. I'm high maintenance, but I think I'm low maintenance. Somehow, people still love me. Must be grace.
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