To of my favorite poets floated by the other day, and I wrote this.

When Emily and e.e. Float By

“I’m the one
knocking
on your door,”
the old man,
clothed in ermine,
said, for his
tippet only
crimped nylon
(the wedding
shop being slap
out of tulle).
Spring blossomed
and became all.

I’d entertained
angels unaware
before, but this
felt different…
and my blood
wasn’t in a
wedding mood.

“It’s been
centuries,”
the man breathed.
I was jealous
of his outfit.
The sun stood
still and flashed,
a minor miracle.
I reminded myself
death was no parenthesis.