Beneath the wedding bough
Spring the saplings of this union.
Their branches twine together, hand in hand,
Their veins become the midnight kissers.
The mad hour of cake,
Handshakes, and pictures
Is the baroque pageant for something else.
For a oneness cutting rivers through a field.
This ceremony: a cup to taste that river
Whose polishing fluve will
Surely rust away the wedding rings
That are mere baubles of this eon’s pageant.
Your love gathers it’s lakes into oceans
Where you will drink everlasting
To feed the wide, eternal oak
That only yesterday was two saplings.