Epithalamium

“There is no one to bless this.”
~ Matthew Rohrer

The velvet of the tongue against the roof
of the mouth, the smell of apple blossom—

I don’t quite remember what was said about
the life we’ve been given, for the touch

of fingers on my wrist. Who will witness
this perfect morning, clear and cool?

Sunlight splinters, translucent in the leaves
like handfuls of flung grain. In the woods,

the animals take provisions to their den.
I sign myself over: I do, I do.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.