Wedding Vows

Falling is an art. No one, not even the preacher,

can tell you the way to your knees in the night.

Watch the rain. It practices its landing

on everything, drumming the roof, the car,

the pond. Watch the leaves, each a teacher

of twirl, the dance from branch to grass.

From window to pavement, the man was laughing

all the way down. However he landed, it was

hardly over. Now he’s called wise.

Walking is falling forward. Running

is falling faster. Watch the dark. It falls

so slowly while the sun yanks the rug

out from under you. At night some fall over

a book into a story. Some fall

for each other. We have fallen all the way

here. We could do it in our sleep. And we do. We do.