We married in springtime,
in the month with the prettiest name,
that long a softening the plosive p
and ending with a lilting l,
she’s beautiful and she knows it,
decked out in blossoms of pink and white,
crowned with pale daffodils,
she put on her best dress for us,
donning a gown of brightest blue
shot through with warmest gold,
like she knew it mattered,
the kind of day you would conjure
by magic if only you had the power.
We married in springtime,
in Aries season,
my moon and your rising,
though I know you don’t believe that,
an even date in an even month,
pleasingly symmetrical
just like I wanted,
it was always going to be April for us,
those soft, hazy days with their
promise of summer soon to arrive,
the world is awake now and so is my soul,
flexing its fingers and stretching its limbs,
freed at last from its long hibernation.
