This
wedding was planned before you were born.
Your ancient Heart and the Mother of Dances
were the elders who arranged it.
Don't
worry, they knew what they were doing.
They run the beachfront honeymoon hotel
made
of crushed emeralds
where we all stay between lives.
They
chose this breath to marry your body.
Now you go stumbling down the aisle,
wondering if you're ready for this,
making eyes at the guests in their pews,
doubting, muttering to yourself,
"Should
I marry this one instead?"
Stop
tripping over your veil!
Stop chatting with strangers and unruly cousins!
Just keep gazing toward the sanctuary,
at the one who waits for you there.
The chuppah your vine-tangled ribs,
the aisle your exhalation of surrender.
As you walk down, you gradually awaken.
This
procession is a pour of wine.
Your beloved is the bottom of the cup,
a mirror of empurpled splendor.
When
you pour your gladness into that face,
and taste of that ancestral vintage,
bride and groom, priest and wedding
all dissolve in the fire of “Yes.”
Once you say, “I Do,”
these grapes become wine.
Painting by Marc Chagall
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