I will be married barefoot, in a grassy hilltop meadow.
I’ll invite folks who won’t expect me to wear shoes
or serve steak, and I’ll toss my bouquet of wildflowers and weeds
all the way to the Empire State Building.

I’ll feed my guests homemade peanut butter
and simple, flaky, white fish, and I’ll clothe their
sun kissed limbs in honeysuckle vines.

My husband will be a man of integrity, and he will wear shorts
to work on the first Monday it hits sixty degrees.
He’ll own a jam company, and we’ll strike it rich at thirty five.

Our babies will sing harmonies
and churn peaches and cream in our ice cream machine.
I will retire each surreal evening to a room just for words:
Well lit, with a mahogany desk.