Time is circular like the wedding band on your finger, and the one-man band who played in the corner stage on that special night, it featured the dance between lovers, a binding beat on a pair of feet, measured steps so as not to trip, slip, or otherwise lose a grip, kept steady like floating swans, a graceful tango in spirit only, arms and legs intentionally twisted, but just so,
churning up the heat of the rising sun, and morning hues of rose, purple and gold, shining on the unspoken language of a longing glance, silent words, tales untold, whispers on high school notes, then printed in songs by the likes of John Cougar Mellencamp’s Cherry Bomb, played on the radio and MTV, over and over, which gave the young practice to see it through, the opportunity, the chance for budding love, holding on for dear life, holding hands tight as…
young awkward teens anxious to be rid of all their mistakes, rising to adult measures and standards, eager to erase memories, nervous phone calls, what to wear, everyone’s advice, sitting on hard wooden benches at a concert, feet clamped to sticky theatre floors, hot kisses in the back seats of cars, the new days drawn from the old ways of courting, the asking, the answering yes, and no, and I don’t know, meanwhile the planets and the stars get tossed around.
Then years grew like branches of a tree there in a plush garden flush with cactus roses, all kinds of fragrant experiences, and the occasional drops of wisdom, she smiles with the light of the moment on her face, knowing no one can replace how she’ll fare tomorrow, an extraordinary heart in an ordinary world, growing new petals and leaves with every rain drop and ray, more glorious upon further examination
marble columns fading on the horizon, neckties and fancy dresses hung up on closet racks, cityscapes on faded postcards, all traded in for plaid-shirts and overall beginnings, his good friend said ‘you really lived life,’ he packed up and moved to an actual winding dirt road, a rooster crowing in his sleep, his feelings shook from the past like a California quake, launched from his waterbed, launched from the dead, with the tap of her finger, nudge of her hand, now he’s fully, fully eyes wide awake
she knows he loves her, gentle kisses, gentle hugs, under a moonlike spotlight, they stand on dusty rugs set on the prairie ground like rolled-out red carpets, they spend moments in the proverbial hour glass at an English breakfast, in a colonial town, caught in the eternal loop where life felt ‘just right,’ they pour more coffee on the chill winter days, in black wool coats, and near a tavern fire place, her hand in his, fingers intertwined, an iron circle unbent, he beholds her angelic face, the same expression he found on the night of their nuptials in a snowy church yard, the miraculous sparks from universal fires light theirs, as one scrupulous romance.