It's too early for certain words,
too late to recall the ones already spoken.
So says the language of sequins and floral
tulle cascading from her bodice and hem.

My hands pull and snap, hook and lift.
They are springtime curious for words
explaining now.

A moment of clarity: at times trying to persuade
the right word to come is simply admiring
one's own clumsy handwriting.

Now my hands are done tugging. The last thing is to
bring her veil down over her face. And then all that's left,
while we look at both of us in the mirror,
are the tugs of reasons:

How else to say a woman is beautiful
without using the word beautiful?

the reasons we push away certain remembered
touches and share others, why we search
for words in a new lover's skin,
why we put fallen diamonds back into mounts.