Holy Matrimony
(Anniversary in Colonial Williamsburg)
Watch the cooper resume his old manufacture, how the hollowing knife will carve perfect volume from imperfect nature. So we two, man and wife, embraced like oaken staves, these golden rings our hoops, this common life our cask, have joined our tapered selves. From us, clerkish time scoops his purchase. You might ask what our maker meant, what profit would he earn working with such rough woods, as if, after a stint, he might hope to return and find us full of goods. We form a paradox: open to deliver yet tight enough to hold, an enclosure whose locks free all who would enter, though bound by bands of gold.
--Roger Mitchell
Roger Mitchell lives in Crozet, VA, with his wife and two daughters. He is the editor of a magazine for professional investors, and his poetry has been published by National Review Online.
