Have you ever seen the pollen fall like cotton flakes, like a late spring snow blanketing Chicago? How it flitters and floats from crestfallen skies that rise in whites of high exposure, deepening shades, turn gray and then blue and where the sun hides behind it, shines with golden hues? Down in the nitty-gritty of the city that once was a scrap yard of disrepair and destruction, snuggled between the bending banks of the summer-aqua river, the road and century-old tracks; from where the sun shines, two lovers stand hand-in-hand in the lighted windows of shadows of great rusted ruins. If God is alive and the sun is his eye, then the snowy pollen flowed straight from his bright eye like tickling tears, from behind the steel girders, silhouettes as they were against the copper sky… a thousand feet of welded webbing casting longer shadows toward the East while the sun descends westerly. If God is alive then this is seemingly why, but in the weather coming out so perfectly and the sun somehow shining, still shaded by colossal cotton clouds; there rests heavy the feeling that there are still other eyes smiling down from that Angel's Heaven today. Mothers gone away still forever live in their children's hearts each day.
The best philosophers to our lives are those who know us best, I say… and while two lovers stand hand-in-hand, dear friends lament that what is passed is merely foundation, and that as such beauty can be found in the groundwork alone that the edifice of love to be constructed henceforth will tower over this city of century-long ambitions like a crystal cathedral of stratospheric heights. In the minds of those whose knowledge is less known: restoration, faith, enlightenment and confidence is emboldened by each word of the preacher, the teacher, the songbirds and the poet; that these lovers joined and bound in perfect ceremony, with love and adoration of those who love them most, shall rise above the plagues of our times and continue on forever, beyond this life's endeavor and remain unbroken like the rings avowed and shared promise spoken.
There's much to be made of modesty. Pure matrimony is the only true, bright filler for empty hearts and as so seems the consecration of these two lovers, the kaleidoscope of late spring blossoms comes so easily and resplendently; radiance that on any other day would be the showcase of the grounds, but today, like the sun, dims in the effervescent luminescence of pure hearts purely aglow beneath a blossom-crowned alter. The essence of life—warm blood, bubbling so fervently that the skin of the bride chills into excited goosebumps, as evident as mountains rising over prairies. Lovers know the feeling of a warm tide rising high, swelling into blushing cheeks and phosphorescent eyes, joyfully wide so that the warmth may escape thru a streak of blazing tears and so intent on not missing a moment of the sharing of souls. The groom's face is a reprise, clearly pure and surely a mirror in that his eyes are both reflective and sheer. He blushes and smiles, though all the while maintains a confident repose.
Have you ever seen two bodies become light and pure energy and collide in a thundering, whirling wonderment of oneness? Like two hurricanes (their souls) of wild passion and exciting lightning, fusing, aligning, amidst the complicity and composure of the world surrounding? Just as the elements came together on this day to create a perfect arena of warmth, water and white; so too came together two lovers today, in perfect harmony for the matrimony of life.
Blesséd are the eyes, which have seen such majesty;
Blesséd are the souls, which have known such revelry.
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