The morning after the wedding
we are no longer beautiful,
no dancing gowns or tuxedos
in the Greenfield museum, no
pirouettes beside the Spirit
of St. Louis, no more bobbing
breasts and cut vests under portraits
of Henry Ford. Now, here in the
hotel garden it's all shorts and
skirts and flip flops, everyone storming
the buffet to calm the whiskey sweat.
Yesterday under the old elm
the flower girls skipped barefoot in
the grass, leading the parade of
groomsmen and bridesmaids, then
the trembling groom, then the bride,
rambunctious, and when the carillon
bells rang six o'clock she laughed,
locusts shimmering in the heat,
the dry wind scuffling the elm leaves,
this is the sound of antiquity,
she thinks, and the guests all smile, she
is beautiful as they exchange
their private vows. The priest tells
the story of the Belgian brothers
sharing their father's farm, how
every night they stole into the barn
and gave the other more hay, one
out of love and the other out
of sacrifice, until one night
they met under the moon, surprised
at the other's gift. Love is no
contract, the priest warns, love grows
in time and time doesn't outlive
love.
Now, this morning, time outlives
all of us here in the garden,
among the painted daisies and the
roses, a window opens and
the bride and groom lean down into
the flowers, they are beautiful in
this time, like the Belgian brothers
meeting under the moon, they are
laughing as they throw carnations
down on us, they have been here
forever, leaning down and
spilling flowers on our lives. Here
in Henry Ford's hotel we are
not beautiful, no one ever was,
except here in this myth of time,
this myth of loving, loving more
deeply that we know.
