Change occurs at the edge of things,
the groom said, looking at the photograph
he’d taken of blueberry bushes burning
crimson in autumn on Dolly Sod.
I think of the sun’s bow before an earth
altar at dawn and dusk, the space between
known and knowing, empty with possibility.
In the doorway, a carved flute plays the wind
and, down the hill, merged rivers meet land with
pebbled touch and a wave at parting. In this ceremony
between before and after, I think of a message,
torn and ink-run, when summer turned
to snow overnight. Here are the edges
of two bodies rubbing dried and polished
stones together, flint and twig, burn and spark.