Epithalamium: Nineteenth Hour

At night yesterday’s nearer than tomorrow –
Perhaps because the sundown sadness of grief
Bristles chill against the skin, a sorrow
You own up to the way a summer leaf
Will blush and betray its autumn destiny
(The fall is sanctity
Writ large). The fading colors argue sleep…
And stars will blink their maps of unity
To brave the cries and whispers that would keep
Awake with unwarranted vigilance
The doubts that had long since
Been put to bed. This dark margin is slight
But draws out from hearts the poison of distance
And cradles moments that make the difference
Between passing hours and constant moonlight.
The moon wears her light like a wedding gown
And slowly dresses down
From sky to earth – and to what darkness is
Denied by its nature without the key of grace.

Epithalamium: Eighteenth Hour

All day, the wit of wine and laughing friends
Were joy’s company on the sun’s journey.
But as these light things have their own ends,
Allow yourselves the means of intimacy –
A whisky bottle, cigarettes, a kiss
And roads to reminisce,
The country rides and city boulevards
Where public courtship serves love’s interstice.
Again, art assaults what modesty guards…
Original touches sing a sweet refrain –
On parched hearts, a soft rain;
The simple gesture casts a cooling shadow,
The kind that’s welcomed in desert places.
Such expressions appear as oases -
Amid empty eternities, they flow
With fertile faith and overspill with mirth
Because on all the earth
No other night unlocks the stars like this.
Indeed, the world’s dark nature finds no key of grace.

Epithalamium: Seventeenth Hour

How brief the golden moment’s occasion
Before its passage into iron age…
The dew has put the pearl on day’s horizon.
Minting hill and field in rarity’s coinage,
Day pays its dues to night, its tax to peace,
Its rent to stars set loose
Within a pastured sky. A sad note more
Of merry tunes and good talk slips the crease
Of dooryard darkness, and fades out before
Spying evening creeps through western windows.
The descending dusk slows
Events and points up violets and nightshades –
A solitary vase arranged just so
Beside the bed where bride and groom go
To pay the mutual debt of maidenhead’s
Incorporation. Perfect honor rules
Their contract, more than jewels
And gold, though the tawdry world can't know this,
Its nature all out of tune with the key of grace.

Epithalamium: Sixteenth Hour

The pastured cattle stomp for stanchions; sheep
At hilly intervals are clouds in green
Euphoria; both endure the tired creep
Of shadows that thread the remnant sunshine.
The moments mount a shadow’s blade of grass
And leave a bent sadness
Beneath every hoof print. The steps away
From night begin their count. The drowsy guests drink
As they have all day. The near heavens thank
Their host, this perfect day,
With early starlight from one that loves to make
Her presence known as harbinger of night.
The moon and Milky Way corral their light
In every window. Farmer’s hoe and rake
Can take their rest at last. The harvests wait
For plow to cultivate
Tomorrow’s fruit – what will come just to this –
That nature’s fertile soil turns by the key of grace.