The word reminds me of my wedding bouquet,
the one I held when we got married in Tønder/Denmark,
thirty-six years ago on October 30, 1980.
The bouquet was a dream in pink
– Roses, Gerbera Daisies, Baby’s Breath.
It matched my pink angora dress perfectly.
We danced into the courthouse,
holding the flowers tightly,
and we waited for our turn to be called in.
The officiating clerk asked us
in three languages
if we were willing to be joined in matrimony.
I remember beaming at him,
almost shouting ‘yes’,
and Guenter grinning at me.
Only for a mo
ment
my bouquet changed hands
so that I could sign the documents.
We left the courthouse
with our family and witnesses
and went for a walk along the nearby coast.
A breezy day it was –
sunny, clouds low over the Atlantic,
and the wind played with my flowers.
It was a perfect day,
the years and decades that followed
not always perfect, but always filled with love.
… and I still remember holding that bouquet.
Hiking Poet 