Toward an Epithalamion

I saw you this morning, early,

placing flowers

on settlers' graves, the sunken graves

in the meadow

by the summer house, one man's stone,

I know, an open book,

a wish that we might read him

from his dust.

Strabo said the world's a coat,

and if that's right,

it must fall little by little

from the sky

to cover such cold rests. Think

of summer clouds

growing full of themselves

and winnowing

down in shadows instead of rain.

Two of them

this morning made one shadow

and gathered us

into its dark cloth, not black

but a richer green,

a color you've said you'd want

woven in

a wedding dress or wedding tent.

I called your name

from the hill, too far away

for you to hear,

your scarf one tip, my hat the other,

of a heraldic shield-

such a stitchery to temper distance.

It doesn't always

plot against us, this hard earth,

this solid and

dividing thing. If we marry

Pll wear the world.