she plucks impressions like petals
and stows them in the wicker basket
of her mind, only to fling them out immediately
in a pink flutter of breathless chatter.
In the ice cream parlor,
over her butterscotch and m&m sundae,
commenting on customers—
that lady’s shorts
are shorter than her shirt
why does that man have a mustache
on his forehead
She displays her utter engagement,
her complete acknowledgement
of all that she encounters,
not muffling or stifling or censoring,
as she will soon learn to do.
So for now, I watch the petals swirl around us—
Everyone please stand:
Here comes the bride.
Sara Smith Andress lives in the Florida panhandle with her husband, two daughters, and fifteen chickens. She teaches composition and literature to community college students.
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