Rain of the months and years we had 
known each other pressed in, printing 
the new car as we left the wedding. 
Larkspur, phlox, roses weedy in the 
gravel, the stretch of slanted windows, 
the meander of spring into summer 
in the beanfield. The relief of going 
hit in a peculiar way, abreast, 
a spreading stain: the rain sloshed 
on the windshield. As we went, the church 
rose into the brink, and we counted out 
the white dresses and the school ties, 
the vows. The hillside spiraled, 
chestnut, and along the service road 
Lady Bird’s florals glistened, so that 
even now, speaking in the rain, 
we think of her—her little hats, 
triangular in the heartland. 
Our glance lit on fenceposts, water 
towers, the road frayed like a hymnal 
ribbon as we followed it, winding 
past the resort towns: Shelburne, Barrington, 
Tanglewood, the misty profile of Brahms 
in the treetops, under the striped tents. 
Ahead of us, the rain came in ridges, 
whole meadows of water, and the air 
was matted: three centuries of water 
since the bells pealed out. My shoes 
were wet in the dew, waiting 
for the ceremony, and now, looking 
over towards you, I saw your face 
cloudy against the dripping window.