The bride to be

Pressed her hand

Against her side

Below the waist

On the gridlocked S curve

Of indigestible worries

her wedding plans brought to bear

In one instant

While talking dates and prices

She saw it in the sky

In the faint lemony smell of fear

rising in waves

off the skin of the bride

The handmaid of flowers

Knew.

The bouquet

Would be built on a

Waterfall of white trumpet lilies

to herald the merging of souls

With pom poms of peacock blue

Electrical bolts from ancestral clans

to welcome them in, to welcome them home

Surrounded by

A halo of Ethiopian rose

Fuscia flames to seal the vow

And satin ribbons

To tie

And bound

Within the spectrum of visualization

The ceremony had already begun

The shop owner

Shook hands with the bride

And smiled her quiet smile.

Poetry reaches for something that feeds the soul. Jacqueline Moss searches for poetry in the early morning sunrise by the sea, in the surrender to night in her dreams and by the  bedside of the dying. She prays to become a poem.