|Apr/May 2003 • Poetry|
Gacela of a Wedding Day
No one can blame the Aspens on fire with Autumn.
No one can blame the lake reflecting the gold columns.
She floats like a ghost to the altar, full of whiteness.
She ghosts her way past the pews, and rises to the altar.
The bride surprises me into a skin of black cloth.
I wanted to be a feathered dancer, not this stark black cloth.
This will always be the way love enters a room—with a hush.
She becomes the focus of light and the silence such light brings.
The minister is a distraction—his thin tie, his square book,
almost frail reading the words, his worn finger running over the book.
A flock of promises rises in my chest and I am lifted to her hand.
I have become wings wanting to rest within her hands.
O this day's light that does not fade like others before it.
O this light that threads into the body, that sets the Aspens ablaze.