For C.L. and J.H., on their wedding day
Alone with a first spider in the house,
Hills turning green, you'd really like to flee.
(Globe of carnations, chains of marigolds.)
—To city's edge, and cypress by the sea,
Down where the air is new, sky almost new,
High clouds from the southwest, Mexican kids
Playing, the right ideas humming along
An old trajectory, which few have sung,
And fewer still have praised. The old, old world
Where you and he walk once, almost a dance,
His gesture artful, tender, when you turn
Away, and turn back, wearing a coat of black
Satin, with long tails, over a white silk dress,
Really a shift. White stockings. (Violin
Singing its mournful brilliance, music run
Backwards, the way you might recall a day
You marry. That we might not be alone.)
Now light and color swell the open air,
Day after rain, last yellowed walnut leaves
Filter late sunlight:
En mi soledad
He visto cosas muy claras
Que no son verdad.
Laurel and madrone
And oak woods just below your mother's house.
Leaf litter. Resurrection of the dead
Has been postponed, and the "millennium"
No-showed. Let wild hope carry us through spring,
While dark-eyed juncos forage in the rain...
Walk hand in hand. Take your time walking home.
Care for each other. Hermit thrushes sing
As though in praise of God. —God may appear
This spring, or never. By late March, right here
Watery cloud light spills a finite sky,—
As wild plum blossoms falling, blow away.
Old, comfortable, not posh
37 minutes ago