You, the fabric that covers my bones In all its tanned brown glory You, the canvas of my emotion And also its shelter. For you are the thin line, the boundary, the border Separating, protecting This convoluted rabbit hole of an inner world From the outer one. You are the curtain, the doorway, the membrane The universe must sear through Before it sears me. With all your intricate layers That you cast off and renew You are the shield All scars must get through. You are the vessel, the marionette, the coffin That encapsulates my soul in its worldly warmth, Packing supernovas and blackholes and a gooey conscious Into a five-five body for the cosmos to comprehend, The sluice gate which confines my cyclones in And lets my tsunamis slip through in solitude. You are the companion, the slave, the master Born with me, liquid milk, you are what the world touched first. You'll live through the hormonal hurricanes of my youth Till finally the liquid milk unfolds its wrinkled layer To be blown on and pulled off by the icy warm fingers of death And dissolved in the flames of earth's remembrance. You are the yielder, the rebel, the healer, Submitting your forests to razed And your land to cut or dug or burnt you Endure it all with nary a sob And yet, you are strong. You are strong, not malleable, For you never give in, my beautifully stubborn rebel you Come back, slowly, quietly Your silent rejuvenation your powerful protest. You are the transmitter, the receiver, the storer That feels the elements and etches them into itself Memories and secrets only you and I know; The raindrops that slip under the umbrella, The wind in my face on a bicycle ride, The yellow warmth of the winter sunshine, The soft dewed grass under a tree in my toes. You are what turns moment into memory. You many not be pretty, or uniform, or perfect But that is why you are human You are tangible And most importantly, You Are mine.
Reading the Harry Potter books is a rite of passage for a reader. Learning to play the F chord is a rite of passage for a guitarist. Similarly, receiving a second award of the same kind is a rite of passage for a blogger.
In my opinion, at least.