PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

She was the white rose of summer
Waltzing out of independence
In the satin and silver dream
She’d had since age four.
Ten minutes to the altar
She spins in the mirror,
The twirling princess in the music box
With diamonds set in the waves of her hair.
She puts on the smile
That will fill all the portraits
With her joy,
And laughs at her friends
Squirming in soft green.
Pause, in the mirror
She sees
The bridesmaids’ flowers waiting on the table,
Their pale green shawls and silver shoes,
The beads glittering around her neck,
The pearls swinging from her ears.
Running her fingers over the ruffles
In her skirt
She realizes
This
is not
a dream.
“I’m getting married,”
She whispers to herself,
Looking down,
Where forever glittered in engagement diamonds
Around her finger.
“I’m really getting married.”
And suddenly, she is twenty-eight again
With dirty dishes piling up
Six months after a Jamaican honeymoon;
Her prince leaves clothes on the floor,
Her makeup stains the bathroom sink,
And his noble white horse Honda
Wheezes and sputters in stiff protest
Of being useful.
She could just see
The two-storey townhouse palace,
The grand halls he insists on painting
Orange
And yellow,
While bills congregate on the round table
Amongst jigsaw schedules that never quite fit
Together.
What if it’s not glamorous
Convenient or beautiful,
When she’s too tired to push the vacuum
One more step?
And the floors are not sparkling marble
But plastic tile
He forgot to sweep.
And what if it isn’t satisfying?
What if it isn’t enough?
If she isn’t
If he isn’t
If…
What if…
Worries begin
To sting her eyes,
And slip in droplets down her blushing cheeks.
Chattering voices tumble under the door—
One hundred and fifty familiar faces
Waiting in the pews.
And what if?
What if…
“Don’t be nervous,”
The flower lady smiles,
Tugging at Kleenex.
In five minutes
There will be candles and “Canon in D,”
Step, slowly, step again,
Toward the smile she fell in love with
Waiting tables at that pizza place,
With cheap dates in deck chairs at the corner café.
No need to be glamorous
Over orange juice and omelets,
And late night car rides
Were nicer
In beat up Hondas with room to dream.
The ripple of his quiet laughter
When he saw her apartment
As messy as his
Was charming,
And he was waiting now
To promise her happiness
Even when the floor is muddy
And the closets cluttered
And the car engine dies,
When clothes land inches from the hamper
And sprawl on the carpet for a couple days,
When a tower of plates and silverware rises
From the sink.
“Don’t be nervous.”
She smiles,
Powdering her cheeks,
Twirling in satin with dreams in her eyes
Better than happily ever after.