This Photo is linked to a Web Album of all the photos from the reception It can be clicked on and it will allow you to view and/or download what you like. Not All Photos were made by me. I had help with many of them by my beautiful, talented daughter, Chynna.
I walk the fields behind our house; you ride. We meander the pasture, zig-zag our way to the creek place. A rustling stand of winter wheat murmurs as a crowd might, tracking our steps to creek's edge.
You walk your horse ahead of me, through the thorny bushes along the creek bed, which is dry these days and soft with sand. You make for me clear passage. I tell you the rounded boulders that the water smooths when it rushes past are matte white like found bone, or like half-buried moons. You say, yes, yes.
Sometimes on the bank of this creek we have stood looking out and boxed our hands the vista from the back bedroom of the imaginary house we build together It is a gentle yellow bungalow with a covered porch painted robin's egg blue and filled with dangling lanterns. There are also many wind chimes. We can gaze there, amid the sounds of the wind, out into the old woods and watch spring rise, seeping slowly bright and green into each of the whispering leaves.
For now, though, winter lingers. We emerge from the creek, we walk and laugh and when the path between us grows too wide, I wait for you. Around me the field's maroons, tame greens, dull browns float into one another and I trace my arms like ribbons through the silken air. I jump, I twirl.
Hup! you say and gallop quickly back to me. When your horse has swallowed away the space between us, I reach my hand up to your fine saddle and find your hand. All the while the white rind of brand-new moon sears the dusky sky behind you. My love, you must always find me.
1 comment:
I Wait for You
--by Carolyn for David
I walk the fields behind our house;
you ride. We meander the pasture,
zig-zag our way to the creek place.
A rustling stand of winter wheat
murmurs as a crowd might, tracking
our steps
to creek's edge.
You walk your horse ahead of me,
through the thorny bushes
along the creek bed,
which is dry these days
and soft with sand.
You make for me clear passage.
I tell you the rounded boulders
that the water smooths when it
rushes past are matte white
like found bone, or like
half-buried moons. You say, yes,
yes.
Sometimes on the bank of this
creek we have stood looking out
and boxed our hands the vista
from the back bedroom of the
imaginary house we build together
It is a gentle yellow bungalow
with a covered porch painted
robin's egg blue and
filled with dangling lanterns.
There are also many wind chimes.
We can gaze there,
amid the sounds of the wind,
out into the old woods
and watch spring rise,
seeping slowly bright and green
into each of the whispering
leaves.
For now, though, winter lingers.
We emerge from the creek,
we walk and laugh
and when the path between us
grows too wide,
I wait for you. Around me
the field's maroons, tame greens,
dull browns float into
one another
and I trace my arms like ribbons
through the silken air.
I jump, I twirl.
Hup! you say and gallop quickly
back to me. When your horse has
swallowed away the space between
us, I reach my hand up
to your fine saddle
and find your hand.
All the while the white rind
of brand-new moon
sears the dusky sky behind you.
My love, you must always find me.
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