"Gazebo at Night" image from laughlore.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The lace of her glove catches on the splintered railing~ a pause, unnoticed. He twiddles with his cufflinks borrowed, mismatched gleaming in the afternoon sun. They stand beneath the white lattice, two figures pressed like flowers in a book~ her gloves clutching wilting lilies. Paper lanterns above them sway like porous promises, their glow diming at nightfall. The minister’s words dissolve into the hum of crickets. A single bee drifts through the maid of honor’s yellow roses. The gazebo, weathered white, holds them all for just that moment, before the photographs turn sepia. *You may read the accompanying memoir vignette that inspired this poem at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/last_train_to_paris_13604
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