From the Fishouse

I don’t want to put my wedding
dress away. I look at its silk

embroidered bodice, and see
the wet green lawn, our guests,

my daughter in the bedroom mirror,
weaving the last flower into my hair.

I look at my cream-colored dress
as a window, still left open,

though time cannot pass through.
Those few hours --– the getting ready,

ceremony in the woods, reception
on the lawn –-- is all it will ever have.

Imagine, “always” and “forever”
in our closet hanging.