Prodigal Poet: An Ecclectic Offering on God, Shakespeare, and the Beatles

I can hardly believe that four years ago today, I was up at around 5:30am, running on the fumes of four hours sleep, slightly late for my hair appointment, tired, nervous, excited, wondering if I was going to have enough stamina for the day, wondering if I would look okay in my dress, wondering if I would be a good wife. Four years ago was our wedding day. I am amazed at how right people were when they told me as a child and a teenager that time flies by the older you get. It seems as though each year picks up a little more speed, leaving me with breathless wonder if it'll be bursting with the pace of a cheetah by the time I'm in my golden years. So it is important to pause, take a breath (really letting it permeate through my body, slowly releasing it), and remember all of the moments that meant something -- big or small. Today I am remembering one of those "big" moments -- the kind of moment that is so integral to the entirety of my life, but that seems so surre

I was out taking a walk earlier this evening with our dog, Desmond -- our nightly ritual poop-patrol stroll. It had been lightly raining most of the evening and during our walk I could feel it gently descending upon my ponytail and trenchcoat. I noticed the same thing that I always notice when I am outside after it has been raining: worms. Oodles of worms were scattered across the sidewalks -- shimmying over cement to find new resting places after having had their previous ones flooded. I once wrote a poem that was inspired by this, titled "Earth Drowning." The prologue I wrote for it was this: "Worm corpses scatter across sidewalks / Like tenets evicted from earth-carved homes." This phenomenon always saddens me. I have always, since I was very young, had an unusual infatuation with worms. I used to go worm-hunting at least once a week, turning over rocks in our backyard, especially near the garden, searching for my squishy, slimey treasures, with the hopes