traffic & weather on the eights

A poem I wrote for my brother as a wedding gift.

 

The weather came down--
a cold prognosticator
      “the prognosis is grim,” it proclaimed, a cumulus
nimbus of dire prediction about
love
         and
                 happiness
yet the moth flies anyway beating its wings,
eating the fog of uncertainty in great wide
gulps
           hopeful since the tide is out
           wary of when it rolls back in with
           black and heavy waves.
but you will be there, you and she�"two people
bound by an invisible string
floating on a bed above the water�"
holding tight to the hair of the clouds
                                                sitting in a
lifeboat of filled-up empty hands
and full hearts
your bedpost arms greet the night clad in brave
bedclothes and sighing sheets; moving
furniture (forming a fort to fight) earth’s angry
elements
                  imprinting handsandfeetandlines of
your bodies on the carpet…a sound of white
Puget, slicing a fugue of lines through the tufts
as one body guides the other
safely
           to the other side of the shore.