The Bride
by Kristina Woodhill
Pearlbush 'The Bride' blooms out beside the old canoe,
planted there as a last ditch effort to counter
compacted drain-field soil, guaranteed to deplete
any good intentions, here perhaps a new beginning;
The Bride's blossoms are pure white, opened like a wild rose,
profuse in arrangement, named for the pearl-shaped buds
clustered like prom bouquet bracelets
worn on young slender wrists to charm suitors;
the Grumman rests in this storage area for possibilities
among old two by fours, fence posts rotted part way,
a huge fan system neatly stacked in a two-tiered rectangle,
odd remains of fence rolls and stacked flat, irregular pavers;
the canoe was bought from friends a quarter century ago,
its metal tested on the Snake River, floated on Lake Lowell;
here, ground bound, it heaves in heavy winds, side to side
upside down, disoriented by unseen waves looking for water;
our friends, too, have lost their moorings;
one year lost, one year counting, one year without her groom,
she sits overlooking the Snake River alone now, his spirit close by,
where friends gathered for Cinco de Mayo, where golf clubs,
clumsy with laughter, carefree with afternoon camaraderie,
hit golf ball after golf ball from off their lofty river bank edge,
the groom egging us all on to try our skill, push our luck,
be the first to hit one all the way over the river to the other side.
04/29/2010
