This morning, I woke up to exercise,
but got distracted by the bugs caught
in the sticky traps by the back door.
You said a few days ago that the room
smelled like sweat and old rugs, but
today it smelled like morning.

I went to work, the cat lazed in her chair,
we laughed and mimicked her meow.
In two months we’ll be married,
a rainy downpour over greenhouse vows:
my covenant to you will be over
swapped shoes and flossed teeth.

You make it so easy, this wedding,
like the day we fished for hours
and you stabbed worms onto the hook.

At work, everyone asks about
how the planning goes, and I
glass over, veridian chrysalides
on the dewy lawn. Just another
day where teeth are flossed and
fenders are bent, but today

(and that day, and yesterday)

will all change, not by an infinity ring,
but because the bugs in the sticky traps
by the back door will still be there
for our talks and banters –
earwigs, cockroaches, ants, gnats,
marching and stepping

and waiting, wedding-waltzing
in weather and wine –
your hand, your mind.