The Garden Bride

Smiling above bricks and a few bluebells,
the garden bride. Poised among birds’ singing,
seen below the white sun’s distant burning,
she stands, flushed lightly with pink.
Still in the evening,
her wedding white briefly worn, but now
that dress slightly moving with the wind,
she stays in the air, stays open-lovely –
and lets us see a woman’s heart.

The black cat
prowling about the base for luck, has gone;
the fence is damaged; it demands attention;
more grass should be sown.

But the garden keeps its luck,
having this bride, this woman to keep and care for,
who every year looks lovely in the light
that lights the blossoming-white that will bear fruit;
lights up a girl.
A queen on the arm of the wind,
given away by the evening.
Again I see
my bride, standing by the apple-tree.

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