Bridal

By Greg Sendi

As when in summer fauns will peel

acanthus leaves and juniper for food

or crush new eucalyptus under heel

that earthward from each tender shoot

drop balms to scent the fleshy air,

so will the footfalls of the meadow bride,

compressing sage and jasmine, maidenhair

and sparrowgrass, the countryside

exhaling censers down the slope

when she arrives. And so will her advance

express a must of memory and hope

from us, as from the meadow plants,

like sacks of orient spices full

to bursting, cracking open as she comes,

no usury so ravenous but will

be glutted to delirium

when she appears, whose loveliness

itself the gentle liquor of the lands

delivers here in us as austere Pentheus

was ushered to the hilltop dance.

Still when she nears again we feel

what we already know: the world abides

forever, though corruption dance its reel,

there is a garden place inside

whose only holy canon tells

there is no law but love, whose ancient wells

and woodland paths obscure reveal the ways

that we are made of promises and days.

-Originally published in Flashes of Brilliance-