Late Epithalamium with Perennials

Shara Lessley

BPR 45 | 2018

They say with birth begins our disappearance—
pollen to snow one morning to the next.

We took our vows one cloudy spring—the moon
slung low, dull as pollen, I remember, or was it

snow? A son arrived by fall; our daughter born late
spring—overnight, it seemed, the potted violets

drowned in snow. The sun, now bright as winter, sets fat
and low. The children laugh—I lift them

to the swings. Your air is everywhere
they breathe. What’s to regret?—and yet, and yet—