They walk waist-wrapped, head-
tipped, and their breeze turns
calendar pages as they pass.
“This day is like yesterday,” she says,
“unchanged, unchanging. A day
we know already and trust
like an old friend.”
“This day is like tomorrow,” he says,
a mold from which all days
will be cast. See this s-shaped
space between us? How it follows
the line of your body
and mine? That is how all days
will be.”
“This day is like all days,” she says,
“waves that peel from an endless
sea, each bearing a frothy gift
of delicate delights. See them arranged
before us, as far as our eyes
allow.”
“This day is like no other,” he says,
“the day on which the world
pauses and dawn halts
her westward race, reveals
for us a golden band
of light encircling all days
and changing them forever.”
What a superb epithalamion. I think I've never read a better one. Your work belongs in anthologies, my friend. It should be studied in high schools and colleges.
What a superb epithalamion. I think I've never read a better one. Your work belongs in anthologies, my friend. It should be studied in high schools and colleges.
