Something Old, Something New

--With gratitude to Emily Dickinson

Morning sun breaks the horizon,

deepens the haze of June rhododendrons

and bathes with golden light the room

where you awaken to each other.

On your window sill,

a chipping sparrow cocks her head,

as birdsong rises on this edge of promise.

In the sanctuary—the aroma of rose petals and peonies,

light streaming through colored glass onto walnut pews.

In the church hall—a thousand paper cranes dangling

above a dance floor. Everything is ready.

Years before, your great-grandmothers,

grandmothers and mothers

awoke on wedding mornings,

donned gowns, gathered bouquets

and posed before a Model-T,

the backdrop of a farm,

an evergreen on parish grounds.

Solemnly, they stared through winter sunshine

and August haze into the camera’s eye.

When the processional notes began,

they stepped forward,  full of hope—

that feathered thing perched in their souls.

Like these women, you found love,

let go of uncertainty, and listened

with open hearts.

On this, your wedding day,

you slipped into satin and lace,

tucked flowers into your hair,

lifted bouquets and inhaled sweetness.

You checked, one more time,

for the borrowed and blue,

and your hearts, too, quickened,

as the processional notes began.

Two women in a long line of women,

you are so much the same

yet so much a new tradition.

As you take your place in this ancient ritual,

may the love you feel for each other today

fill your hearts and carry you forward

into a future of sun-soaked dawns

and ever-after mornings filled with bird song.