Becoming

I thought love was a patient thing,
a tree that needed years to rise,
rings hidden dark beneath the bark,
slowly claiming earth and skies.

Yet somehow you arrived like spring,
and all my careful measures are broken.
A hundred ordinary days, bells ring,
became a thousand words yet to be spoken.

A week became a treasured year,
a month a season all of its own.
The hours gathered weight and warmth,
until I wondered how this feeling had grown.

We spoke, and somehow speaking changed
the shape and color of the air.
The world remained exactly as it was,
yet nothing felt the same while you were there.

Not years. Not decades weathered through.
Not ancient vows nor histories long.
Just mornings shared and evenings missed,
and suddenly your name lived in every song.

I learned the cadence of your laugh,
the thoughts that hid behind your eyes,
the way your silence carried meaning,
the way your smile could still surprise.

And each small thing became a thread,
so fine I scarcely knew it spun,
until one day I looked around
and found our separate lives are now one.

The calendar insists it has been months,
a handful of pages turned and gone.
Yet my heart counts differently than clocks;
it measures time by who has drawn it on.

So if this seems too quick to some,
let them keep their cautious art.
For love is not counted by passing years,

but by how deeply it roots itself

inside a willing heart.

~My love for you still grows, My Sweetest Heart~

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Aeguary, in the year 1007 AF.