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  • Friday Favorites: Why Do I Love You?
  •  A POEM A DAY 215
  • WORDS OF WISDOM #65
  • A POEM A DAY 213
  • Friday Favorites: You Never Knew Me
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  • Friday Favorites: Why Do I Love You?

    Friday Favorites: Why Do I Love You?

    February 13, 2026
    ~by Roy Croft
    I love you,
    Not only for what you are,
    But for what I am
    When I am with you.

    I love you
    Not only for what
    You have made of yourself,
    But for what
    You are making of me.

    I love you
    For ignoring the possibilities
    Of the fool in me
    And for laying firm hold
    Of the possibilities for good.

    Why do I love you?

    I love you
    For closing your eyes
    To the discords ---
    And for adding to the music in me
    By worshipful listening.

    I love you because you
    Are helping me to make
    Of the lumber of my life
    Not a tavern
    But a temple;
    And out of the words
    Of my every day
    Not a reproach
    But a song.

    I love you
    Because you have done
    More than any creed
    To make me happy.

    You have done it
    Without a word,
    Without a touch,
    Without a sign.
    You have done it
    Just by being yourself.

    After all
    Perhaps that is what
    Love means.

    Knowing why you love someone matters because love without awareness can easily drift into habit, dependency, or projection. When we cannot name the reasons for our love, we risk loving an idea rather than a person—loving what someone provides instead of who they are. The poem insists that love is not rooted in usefulness, improvement, or effort, but in recognition: loving someone “not for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you,” and for who they remain even when they do nothing at all. Understanding why we love clarifies our values and keeps love honest. It separates genuine connection from obligation and helps ensure that affection is freely chosen rather than unconsciously assumed.

    Expressing that love, especially when it is grounded in such understanding, gives the beloved something essential: being seen. To articulate love is to offer reassurance that their existence alone is enough—that they do not need to perform, fix, or earn their place. The poem shows how, when spoken, love becomes a mirror in which the other can recognize their own worth. This expression steadies relationships; it creates a sense of emotional safety and trust. When someone hears why they are loved, love becomes less fragile and less conditional. It transforms from a feeling into a presence—one that affirms, anchors, and allows both people to remain fully themselves.

    Simona A. Brinson

    Photo by Shaira Dela Peña on Unsplash

    ©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.

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  •  A POEM A DAY 215

     A POEM A DAY 215

    February 11, 2026
    The Wind Remembers
    The wind remembers the day you were born—
    your first breath,
    the first tear you cried,
    your first heartbreak,
    your first love,
    your first skinned knee.

    It remembers how you learned to stand
    by falling,
    how laughter arrived before language,
    how grief taught your name its weight.

    It followed you through open windows,
    waited in the hush before goodbyes,
    pressed its palm against your back
    when you thought you were alone.

    When you forgot who you were,
    it did not.
    It kept the map of you
    in its restless hands—

    and when you are tired,
    when you think nothing has lasted,
    the wind will pass your face softly,
    as if to say:
    I was there.

    Simona A. Brinson

    Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash

    ©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.

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  • WORDS OF WISDOM #65

    February 10, 2026

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  • A POEM A DAY 213

    February 9, 2026

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  • Friday Favorites: You Never Knew Me

    Friday Favorites: You Never Knew Me

    February 6, 2026
    ~ by Elaine Cole Crombie
    You never knew me
    you who knew me so well

    You who could trace my smile
    on a pillow or in your mind

    You who could identify my laughter
    around the corner, up the stairs

    You who could feel my warmth
    on the coldest nights or hottest days
    at your side
    or a hundred miles away

    You who could feel my soft breath
    in whispers on your neck
    the gentle caress of my hands,
    the taunting kiss, the teasing walk

    You who tasted the tears
    that only you could bring
    because you never knew me
    you who knew me so well

    The Significance of You Never Knew Me

    Elaine Cole Crombie’s “You Never Knew Me” resonates deeply with my experience of being married for eleven years to someone who loved an idea of me, but never truly knew me. The poem articulates a painful paradox: intimacy without understanding, closeness without recognition. It names the quiet erosion that occurs when another person can map your habits, your laughter, your body, yet remain blind to your inner life.

    Being unseen by someone who is supposed to know you intimately fractures the psyche in subtle but lasting ways. Over time, you begin to question your own reality: Am I difficult to know? Am I asking for too much? Is my interior life irrelevant? The poem’s repetition of “you who knew me so well” exposes how familiarity can masquerade as knowing. This kind of relationship trains a person to shrink—to translate themselves into palatable gestures rather than honest expression. The result is emotional dissonance: the self you live with internally and the self-reflected back to you no longer align.

    What makes the poem especially powerful is its recognition that love without knowing is not neutral—it is corrosive. When someone cannot see your fears, values, or evolving identity, you become emotionally alone even in partnership. That loneliness, sustained over years, can hollow a person out. It teaches endurance instead of joy, silence instead of truth.

    Ending such a relationship is not a failure of love, but an act of psychological preservation. Sometimes, leaving is the only way to reclaim the self that has been quietly disappearing. “You Never Knew Me” affirms that being known is not a luxury in love—it is essential. And when knowing never arrives, choosing to leave can be the first honest recognition of who you are.

    Simona A. Brinson

    Photo by Dollar Gill on Unsplash

    ©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.

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  • A POEM A DAY 214

    A POEM A DAY 214

    February 4, 2026
    Memory in the Wind
    I listen to the wind—
    faint whispers of yesterday
    tickle my skin.
    
    My memory exhales,
    memories whirl like
    windblown leaves.
    
    I hear his weathered
    voice call my name—
    not Mona, but Muuna.
    
    I smell peppermint
    and cracked leather,
    his boots worn thin.
    
    My nose twitches
    from the aroma
    of his spit bucket,
    full of liquified tubaccah—
    That he chawed
    
    I hear words
    I couldn’t decipher
    in my youth.
    Like yonder.
    
    Seems far away,
    but to him,
    it was right there.
    
    I hear his laughter—
    As Thunderbolt and I,
    frantically dash by
    while he sat on the porch,
    rocking in his recliner.
    
    Only to learn later
    that he’d said,
    That girl is just as crazy
    as her daddy on a horse!
    
    My heart swells.
    Tears fall—
    the wind brushes them away.
    

    Simona A. Brinson

    Photo by Autumn Mott Rodeheaver on Unsplash

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  • WORDS OF WISDOM #64

    February 3, 2026

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  • A POEM A DAY 212

    A POEM A DAY 212

    February 2, 2026
    ELEGY FOR THE BREATHING HORSE
    Beneath the pallid winter boughs
    Where daylight wanes and shivers thin,
    A sable horse, with lowered brows,
    Stands cloaked in fog and breath and sin.
    Its nostrils bloom with ghostly fire,
    A vapor born of hidden heat,
    As though the soul, grown cold and tired,
    Still whispered live through lungs and beat.
    The leather creaks. The iron waits.
    The reins lie slack, yet bind the air.
    No rider speaks. No hand dictates.
    The silence bears a heavier care.
    Each exhale curls like vanished speech—
    A word the body will not keep,
    A truth too near the bone to reach,
    Released, at last, into the deep.
    Around it, trees with crooked arms
    Arch like a tribunal of grief,
    Their branches spelling ancient harms
    In alphabets of withered leaf.
    O patient beast, whose breath remains
    Though warmth retreats from sky and ground,
    You teach what mortal flesh retains
    When all the world grows still—
    the sound
    of staying.

    Simona A. Brinson

    Photo by Anand Thakur on Unsplash

    ©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.

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  • Snow Bunnies

    Snow Bunnies

    January 31, 2026
    It’s thirty-five degrees in this small North Florida town,
    the kind of cold that feels borrowed,
    like it won’t stay long enough to learn my name.
    Then they arrive—
    not snowflakes exactly.
    Reminding me of dust bunnies 
    as they drifting loose from the sky,
    soft, unsure, floating past my face
    before vanishing into nothing.
    I call them snow bunnies,
    because they hop more than they fall,
    because they feel playful, temporary,
    because this place isn’t supposed to have them.
    They brush my cheeks with silence,
    melt on contact,
    leave only the idea of cold on my skin.
    The sun stays out, unapologetic,
    as if winter is just visiting,
    as if this is all a rumor.
    The flurries pass as quickly as they came,
    and suddenly the air feels empty again.
    Tonight the temperature will drop into the low twenties,
    and I wait—
    like a child listening for reindeer on the roof,
    heart tilted toward possibility,
    wondering what the dark might bring
    to this unlikely, southern sky.
    
    Simona A. Brinson

    Photo by Val Vesa on Unsplash

    ©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.

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  • Friday Favorites: Don’t Quit

    Friday Favorites: Don’t Quit

    January 31, 2026

    Don’t Quit

    ~by Edgar A. Guest
    When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
    When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
    When the funds are low and the debts are high
    And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
    When care is pressing you down a bit,
    Rest! if you must─but never quit.

    Life is queer, with its twists and turns,
    As every one of us sometimes learns,
    And many a failure turns about
    When he might have won if he’d stuck it out;
    Stick to your task, though the pace seems slow─
    You may succeed with one more blow.

    Success is failure turned inside out─
    The silver tint of the clouds of doubt─
    And you never can tell how close you are,
    It may be near when it seems afar;
    So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit─
    It’s when things seem worse that YOU MUSTN’T QUIT.

    It is often misattributed to John Greenleaf Whittier or listed as anonymous, but literary scholarship credits Edgar A. Guest (1881–1959), a well-known American poet whose work focused on perseverance, optimism, and everyday resilience. Published in the Detroit Free Press (March 4,1921). This poem is now in the public domain.


    I like the poem Don’t Quit because it speaks plainly and honestly about perseverance at the moments when giving up feels most reasonable. It doesn’t romanticize struggle or pretend that hardship is noble in itself; instead, it acknowledges exhaustion, doubt, and failure as universal experiences. The poem meets the reader where they are—tired, discouraged, and unsure—and then gently insists that stopping is not the answer. That honesty is what makes it feel trustworthy.

    What the poem means to me is rooted in its reminder that success and failure are often separated by only one more attempt. The lines about being “near when it seems afar” resonate deeply, because so much of life feels that way: progress is invisible until suddenly it isn’t. The poem reframes struggle as a sign that you are still in the fight, not that you are losing. That perspective has helped me re-interpret setbacks not as proof of inadequacy, but as part of the process of becoming who I am trying to be.

    Ultimately, I value this poem because it emphasizes endurance over perfection. It reminds me that quitting is often a response to discouragement, not a matter of destiny, and that persistence itself is an act of quiet courage. In moments when motivation fades, the poem functions less as inspiration and more as grounding—a steady voice that says staying is enough, and trying again matters.

    Simona A. Brinson

    ©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.

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