(Finally, this wedding: Mayflower Hotel, July 2006)
Each course a metaphor: Ripe
melons’ curled prosciutto tongues.
Rare meats, sliced succulent with
hunter sauce. The sun-struck contours of
a lush gold peach. Dark melted chocolate,
suave as the woodwind section
of a summer orchestra.
Oaths may be good, but currents shift
while set meals have a place for
each -- even absence, even sorrow.
So square the circle, beat the drum:
our bridegroom and dear bride, so
long delayed, have come
to sound a spell as old as flutes
in glades. Father Sky
and Mother Earth, bind them in the dance
of realignment and rebirth.
Like hawks and fishes, let them
find their lives in motion and in
being still, and let them be
as wine in glass that glows translucently.
This table’s our desire, our wish to them
for ease and wonder, joint surprise.
So as they tender love and launch
their craft, please grant us
grace, and pause yourselves:
First published in District Lines Vol III (Politics & Prose, Winter 2016)