The Wedding

The bride is beautiful, as all brides are,

her flowing gown of white in this case, not a lie.

She’s known the groom forever and it almost hurts

to watch him standing there so tall and straight.

His eyes are fixed upon her face and he can only grin.

They’ve waited, unlike most, perhaps the only virgins left

within their demographic. They are sure their love

will be forever, certain everything will be as perfect

as their kisses and the flowers in her hair that rustle

gently in the breeze. They stand beneath the trees surrounded

by their families and friends who sit in Sunday best and fan

themselves a little with their hands. The afternoon’s as warm

as every heart that listens as the happy couple makes their promises,

the binding contract only broken if one dies. He’ll cherish her

and she, because that’s how they roll, she says she will obey.

No one will come between, no matter what they face,

they’ll always be united, two become one flesh,

(or will be very soon). The woman’s sitting by an in-law who, 

she knows, has understanding of what they’re up against,

the mindset not from Mars at all, but further, from another galaxy. 

They laugh about it now and then. She leans in to the other’s

shoulder, whispering so no one else will hear. “Do you think,” she asks, 

“that we should tell them just how hard it’s going to be?”

She chuckles but says nothing, and they sit there silently,

knowing that if anyone had warned them long ago when

they stood there in white (both lying, by the way) they

would have scoffed, too young, unformed, too confident

to ever think they’d change profoundly, growing

up into the women they are now, or that their husbands,

brothers from another world, would never think they should.


What started as a June assignment for the writers' group I attend turned into this poem. The theme was "weddings" and it developed from there.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2019

The Song of the Seed (A Long Time Coming)

He picked a flower, gently pulling every petal out

and then a single seed from somewhere in the middle

and he held it there between a finger and his thumb.

It was a special flower, and a special seed, unlike

the sort we see in gardens or arrangements at the

florist shop. He whispered, “It is time to choose a family.”

But deep inside the tiny seed the living thing it held

was smart enough to know it wasn’t smart enough at all.

“What’s that? He laughed. “You’d rather not?

You’d rather that I chose instead? Alright,” he mused.

“Alright. Let’s see. You’re stubborn and I see your strengths,

but there is weakness there as well. You must be nurtured

carefully. I think you’ll be a second child, with parents who’ve

had practice . You will learn, from them, the power of commitment,

from your sister, bravery, and from the brother you will lose

a loyalty and love for what you cannot understand.

There will be other pain along the way, my discipline,

the way I prune and propagate my garden even here.

At other times the pain will come because there’s pain

released that I can only trust with but a few who will not

turn it inward, planting bitter seeds to water with their tears.

You’ll know neglect and disappointment, and you’ll wonder

who you are and why such things are happening and now and then

you’ll wonder if you should have chosen for yourself.

Loss and loneliness will be companions, but however long

they overstay their welcome, know this: the gifts they bring

were purchased at great price, and are as necessary to your

training there as has the rain been here. Your art, your heart,

your very body, and your soul are a piece of music,

but not every ear will like its tone,

and it will take a long, long time before the melody

I wrote a century ago and placed within you will unfold and

finds its truest voice. But little seed,” he said, “I promise this:

When finally you sing the song I give you now, you’ll start out

with a solo, high and hopeful, heavy with a sadness and a passion,

but it won’t be long (or so it seems to me, as I count time)

there will be harmony, The family that I choose for you,

the happenstances all throughout, the broken bones and dreams,

each triumph or defeat, each grain of knowledge you possess

is all a part, the bass line, and the tenor. Here I write fortissimo,

a jarring dissonance resolving with a pause or change of rhythm,

and the piece is difficult but powerful, demanding every ounce of breath

and just as you are sure your voice can never reach the highest note,

a harmony will rise beneath your failing volume, sudden<

strengthening, entwining to perfection to complete

the song of joy I will compose ... now ... just for you.”

And raising up his hand into a sudden breeze, he spread his<

fingers and the seed was gone. He closed his eyes to listen.

There it was. So faint. The music had begun.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017

My Room

My writer's group was tasked with
writing about what each one didn't
want to change in the new year. I didn't
technically obey, but this is what I
came up with, and I think
they'll be okay with that.

I have changed so much,
arranged and rearranged
the furniture inside the room
of who I am, bought pillows
I don't like and paintings for
the walls I think are dreadful
and appalling, to accommodate
those who demand the seat
beside the window
so they catch the morning light,

the rocking chair that lets
them sink down like a warm embrace,
the couch because it's easier to
watch tv but leave behind their
crumbs for me to sweep. You see,
I've moved from here to there
and back again when others
felt it best to suit their whims,
not mine, because I wanted
to be helpful.
And I wanted to be kind.

I thought that it was right, somehow,
instead of just enabling them to
follow plans in which I'm just a part,
a tiny part, a speck of dust.
Adept at making these adjustments,
minor, major, sometimes laughable,
and sometimes sad so that the
people all around me were as comfy
as could be, but never satisfied,
nor grateful as I grunted,
working up a sweat around them
while they watched.

I want to be the plan itself, important,
cherished as a room inviting
someone special to come in.

So no more change, unless I choose.
The next time that I hang a picture,
buy a chair, put flowers there or
throw away an ugly heirloom, I won't
care what anybody thinks.
"You hate the rug?"
I'll shrug and tell them their own
room could use attention, leave
me to the space I've carved out for
myself in colors glorious, a windchime
singing from the window, fresh air
blowing, filling up my lungs at last.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016