I wore green velvet to my wedding,
my bouquet, a grip of wood anemones;
delicate white and yellow flowers to festoon
my uncertainty, they paled
in my clammy palms.
One man for me to escape sat beside me
in the car, asked if I was sure,
gave me a necklace for luck
and compliance. I felt the thick twist
of its chain tighten to choke me.
One newly acquired relative called me a coltish princess -
even in dogged denial of this insult
I still reared up and bolted a few years later.
But these anemones - their fragility does not survive
the surge of Summer's warmth, they wither
in the recession of cooler shades.
And in a wish to not be forgotten, I, unanchored,
am sometimes adrift in a memory,
my feet rooted in this cold water,
their dark fibres searching downward
for the relief of more solid ground.
Some of the reminders have been lost:
my careful pressings,
but when I think about this I remember
the wood anemones
and how their spread of promises
had not been broken yet.