A wedding poem for James and Anne
Something old
usually refers to an antique object, an heirloom, but I prefer to think
of history, geology, biology, back, back in time to the moment of
ignition that sparked creation, a torch carried 14.8 billion years since
The Big Bang, 4.5 billion since Earth-birth, two hundred thousand
since your tribe homo sapiens sapiens set in motion the notion of
procreation that eventually led to you, with your original Earth
particles and Big Bang neutrinos bouncing around inside to prove
that something old is you, and it’s about time you got married.
Something new
is a matter of spin, the way your orbits have stabilized around each
other like a dual solar system, with not as much wobble as before but
still eccentric enough to have an apogee and perigee and center of
gravity you both are drawn to, not like a ball and chain but like two
weights, dropped from the Leaning Tower of Pisa, that never hit the
ground but whirl away to a private universe where joy and pain swirl
together to make something new, a parfait you can eat with two spoons.
Something borrowed
is the book you lent me three years ago, gratefully returned. Call it
a short story collection. Call it a rare book you thought you’d never
see again. Call it a wedding gift. And since I haven’t read it yet, may
I borrow it again? Like a comet, it will return every few years. Or
call it a boomerang, a token of the love and generosity you give
freely to others, with no thought of recompense, no late fees, no
penalties. And because your universe is round, every something
borrowed you ever lent will always come back to you.
Something blue
could be a garter, or if you’re lucky, a symbol of loyalty, or if you’re
unlucky, a symbol of moderation and self-control. Or if you’re
indifferent to luck, it might be something heavenly blue, like Planet
Earth as seen from space. Something blue could be treasured, like
a sapphire, blue M&M, or prehistoric cave painting with blue deer
and blue bison, which would be a complete surprise, since prehistoric
cavemen had no idea how to make blue paint. Our wish for you is
a life with no need to sing something blue—unless it makes you happy.
first appeared in Without End
Richard Allen Taylor, Poet 