Eleven years ago the sky was clear
and brutal blue--the yellow fireball sun
melted groomsmen, made bridesmaids' makeup run.
I, sunstroked, watched for my bride to appear.
Even the Baptist preacher sweated more
than normal, staining his button-strained suit.
We'd thought a garden wedding would be cute,
little dreaming the summer hell in store.
But then the music played, and I looked up,
and down she came, with petals in her train
like snowflakes, the garden blooming all around--
My love, delicate as any buttercup,
breathed toward me like a cooling autumn rain,
and I drank in her beauty like the ground.
1 comment:
Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay.
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