Photo used by permission. https://www.armstreet.com
Under the weeping willow, embedded
with opulent pearl, for eternity—
silk and cotton now momentarily
to the floor, the mossy river threaded
through the countryside ambling on at rest.
The long draped wing-like creamy bell-shaped sleeves
hung, momentous and old as the dry leaves
upon the ground. The guests dressed in their best
were unsure whether they were here, gifting
for a moment or a new century,
as the water floated by, the petals
met reflection of the hills, now sloping
away into the distance, luxury
of the crescent moon still whitened, natal.
It’s rare to be so quiet at deep grooves
that the moon, still unborn, whispers loudly
amid the bustle of skirts, with baby
carriages, and swish of dark horses hooves.
It’s rare to have a bluest heart so kind
that one would flutter in midair over
the stained purple-white wild lilies cover.
There was a greenish bank where diamond rinds,
hues of bubbles floated on, amid stoic
remembrances and florid faces, sound
as glassy-eyed wine. The only priest was
present in season of the Spring Fair, it
cantered like a new horse, as he came ’round
only twice per year when given good cause.
The bride was wearing white soft-spoken lace,
her ladies, blue willowy glass figures,
baby’s breath to roses. Dainty creatures
of a delicate nature, they made case
that her nature was a pale rose in bloom
and her soft creases did not hide a child,
shining gold hair was plaited, smooth and mild,
she was quite reverent of his duty too.
But she was kind, delicate amid strife,
life in its piercing the dank moss shallows
of her life had made them crisp flowing pools,
and she stretched out her hand, became a wife,
she wore the diamond of her days, fallows
of a fertile land, farmed with ancient tools.
This royal moment in the river field
acquiesced to nature’s horn and plenty,
no woman’s life should be poor and wanting;
translucent gown following and men reeled
at the sight of such a character to
stand so graceful and so elegant, mild
as would a maiden be, yet there with child,
as her bourgeoning soul would attest, blue
were his eyes, and theirs was a renaissance
ceremony, in formal dress, as spoke
the custom of their age. They were not young,
too young, to be the green reconnaissance
of all love in youthful years, which day woke
too early—was it just the web was spun?
The matchmaker nodded her fair consent,
they had breathed vows, a renaissance couple,
common in their time, even nuptials
were seen in almost half of cream crescent
moon young lovers wed along shadowed lull
of waters, where the trim of flowers deck
while perfectly gathered at the scooped neck,
and the pearl beaded bodice falls below
the wedding full of fine giving detail,
a life joined to a life is turtledoves—
where no death, waxen, cold, where flaxen breathes
the clothed bridesmaids celebrate, holding train.
The vests of his men were as brown as cloves,
velvet, and marching on in league motifs.
It was the Golden Age of Art Nouveau:
the curved glass bell of time had rung before—
mosaics out of brokenness, stained cores
of glass rose from marble floor to dome, no
sinewy sense of movement was nature’s
graceful shapes paired with yellow narcissus.
The time of falling dusk had walked with us
into the organic future that spurs
the art of a new century, detail
fine and ornamental in its finite
way of climbing intricate design walk
of the nineteenth century with rail
to render elements sculptural wine,
fluent in curves, iris buds and starched stalks.
How had this composite of medieval
times, limber of foot, danced into black tie
irony with exotic butterfly,
as was the case of her entourage belles.
There was the artist, the model a muse
sitting pale, simple before the painter—
no movement, hands folded, as in winter
of a soul, a childless stance waiting, loose
of the trappings of work and menial
blank servitude that so characterized
the eyes of darkened blind without new art;
here, the dim room started, congenial
to be receptive to old sterilized
forms of dying while still alive, thou art.