Postlude
Sundays are for ice cream...
A June wedding (night)
The day is moving off like a bride’s silk train so many pearls and knots and lacy catches on the grass an epilogue of misty muted sighs, following the main event - so long completed - and yet the light throws kisses as she turns to catch a last goodbye, amen and fare-thee-well. It’s savouring, is what it is; a rolling on the tongue of yet another day of mating, nesting, blooming, bursting, greening, flooding life - a consummation clad in soft pastels and purple smudges; bruises on the blush and a luscious aftermath. The stars are sudden diamonds pledging ever after happiness, with frogs a chorus as a dampening counterpoint to all the sweet confetti of the twilit halls of this most fair cathedral. Ah, we sigh, in slight intoxication from the evening’s celebration of the day’s/night’s adoration. Ah. And (even in the shadow of the earth’s great turning), just this moment, for this space and heartbeat, maybe: (surely?) All is well... ~ Lynn Lundell, ©2026
