The Wedding Toast

The shuffle of dancing shoes and swish of satin is silenced now.
Here and there, atop white linen, cake crumbs scatter a trail
to a champagne flute that stands, as if at attention, as if
it were remembering the exact moment when you raised it
high into the air, as if it had watched you turn toward me,
your face bursting with hope, your eyes encouraging me
to meet your toast, to raise the matching flute, to interrupt,
with a tinkle of Irish crystal, the hushed anticipation of all
who strained to hear the gentle promises you made
with brilliant earnestness on that Saturday in May.

Did you know, at that moment, that through all the Saturdays
to come— those spring days when we would feed each other
coffee cake on a porch newly warmed by a higher slant of sun;
or August afternoons when we’d slip our kayaks soundlessly
through lily pad bouquets, hulls rippling wakes of river water;
or Indian Summer mornings when fallen leaves would stream,
like confetti, over Bald Rock Mountain trails; or winter afternoons
when, snowshoe bound, we’d try to tease one more hour
out of the waning daylight— our future would meet the promise
of the toast you made that glorious day?