In autumn, everyone weds—the moose find one another
to mate and calve, tolerating gasps and photos until
an “incident” occurs. Too many dogs off leash.
Too many runners distracted by iPods. Too many reasons
not to trust, not to say about the beautiful thing: That is beautiful.
Like the frosty October morning when the man, whose face
bones were crushed last year by a charging bull, reaches for
his handgun at the sight of a cow with twins. Haven’t we all been
crushed? Haven’t we all closed our eyes once? To love—
just to speak of it—requires a courage that only love itself provides.
In this line, the cow and her twins slip back into the trees.
In this one, I hold your hand and we marry in the trees.
The trees marry the moose. The moose marry the runners.
But weren’t we the runners all along? Running toward each other—
toward the call we heard before we even recognized it.
an epithalamium for Larissa and Brian