autumn nuptials
a wedding surrounded by orange and red;
fire-lit candles. a family surrounds the
bride and groom who each have children;
a new union forms among the fallen leaves.
the smell of burning foliage. scarves the colors
of a tree-dappled mountainside. the sun-slanted
light, amber like warm drinks in goofy mugs
held by chilled, chapped hands.
the aroma of onions and beef
in earth-colored stews, brown breads and dying grass
betray the ever-changing color of fall, a mirror
of the endless shifts of the human heart and the
fragility of its delicate bonds — all rooted
in warm browns, homey tans and then blazing, fiery lights
the hue of fall trees.
sixteen years later, the bride, who had
long ago abandoned the union, sits
at a desk and recalls a fall wedding.
scarves, soups, amber sunlight,
goofy mugs no longer in the cupboard —
earth colored stews, an olfactory memory.
dying grass crunches under
the well-worn soles of the bride,
who stood in front of an altar and forged a family,
a family doomed by the couple
who made vows that could not be honored;
quixotic promises
to the wrong man,
the wrong woman,
on a perfectly splendid fall day.
— j.a. carter-winward
www.jacarterwinward.com
