WE ARE NO LONGER BEAUTIFUL

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.