Dorine Jennette

Epithalamium

— for Teggin and Robert Summers

Swallows gather at the lakemouth’s fog:

     nearly the hour of speech.

Under the shoreline gazebo’s beams,

fan blades tick the light chain, keeping time

     until the bridesmaids’ heels

commence their clicking to a string quartet.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered

     by the creak of folding chairs, green voices

from the shadows on the lawn.

How will she arrive, the bride, her long, long train?

     Aboard a craft of wooden wheels,

into the flower girl’s beckoning blooms;

stems crushed in the carriage spokes

     release their scents to the groom.

Love, hold, honor, cherish, until: I will—

from willan: I apply my will and I wish, desire—

     spilled on the tongue of the lake,

tasted in that slower world.