The sun shone on our January
wedding day
a bright blue afternoon,
me in my long burgandy red
organza dress, its pleats
brushing the grass, green
as usual
an ordinary California
winter day
with just a slight
chill.

My friend Ellie, startled by
the color, said it reminded
her of her red roses she
had just pruned for
the winter.

She said we had been
pruned and she wondered what
would be our compost, which
has to be of many things --
leaves, twigs, dead flowers,
garbage. She said
she thought our special
combination was my love
of words and his artist's
vision.

We were not new
to our shared bed; it
was more a ceremony to affirm
than to change and
we had no money
nor time for a honeymoon
so we drove into
L.A. for the theater to
celebrate, saw
Terra Nova at
the Mark Taper Forum.
Terra Nova: New Land, about
a failed expedition
to Antarctica.

Our return home was
graced by stars and
a few lacy clouds,
but early the next
morning it rained, the
clouds over the mountains
so black you could see
nothing else.

About three in the afternoon I
was putting our gifts away in
the kitchen when he called
from the living room and said, "Look!
Its hailing!" I looked out
our big picture window facing
the mountains, but the white fall
was too soft for hail and
I shouted, "No! It's snowing!"

We ran outside, laughing.
The ground was too warm to hold
the snow in our yard
but we drove a little ways north and at
500 feet elevation higher the snow
stayed, covering palm trees on
16th street in Upland.

We got out and threw
snowballs at each other and
I thought of Terra Nova and
believed we would grow
old together, our hair
whitening
together,
hands red-knuckled
together, wrapped
around the memory of
the three red roses I carried
that bright
blue
January
afternoon.