Cymbidiums in tidy nests of peat;
a Genoise in stacks, nasturtiums atop;
men and maids upholstered in muted teal.

One mother stifles her lament.
The other pours another bourbon over mint.
One father sprang for a phaeton.
The other does not give one iota.

The bride gives her mouth a coppery patina,
her nails a fourth coat of paint;
dons a temporary halo.
The groom, slightly more man than animal,
thinks all this makes less sense than Latin;
would rather be installing laminate.

The oak under which they all met,
roots bursting, ants working at the pith,
deep in its heavy branches goes to peat;
soon put to the lathe,
will smoke like paper, shine like metal.