Epithalamium

Rating: 4.0

In the middle garden is the secret wedding,
that hides always under the other one
and under the shiny things of the other one. Under a tree
one hand reaches through the grainy dusk toward another.
Two right hands. The ring is a weed that will surely die.

There is no one else for miles,
and even those people far away are deaf and blind.
There is no one to bless this.
There are the dark trees, and just beyond the trees.

Thursday, November 20, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: love
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Cris Ben 04 June 2016

Nice

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