Wedding in the Appalachian Mountains

Clouds slosh over these rugged mountains 
and spill onto the hillside where our host 
has pitched a white tent from which 
we watch a herd of brindled 
cows below us, eating up the meadow.    
Then a magician struts in,

pulls a quarter from his ear, 
and hands it to the bride’s oldest child, 
as we wait for the slow canter 
of bridesmaids down the aisle. 
Knowing it’s the bride’s third marriage 
(three shots fired at the target, bing, 
bing, bing), I think, Oh Lord, how 
smart of her, to hire a magician. 

Meanwhile the cows on the hillside 
are turning crabgrass into cream 
without a wand. And I think, we don’t get 
many chances in a world that’s 
constantly unraveling 
and words like “I do” are such tiny 
hooks to darn it back together.