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.
