The cavern kingdom of the Dwarves
prepares for a celebration, a blending
of the worlds of two life-long enemies,
a rapture of the peace each crave.
The bride appears, a beacon where
light struggles, her train trails far
behind her, a delicate creation
from the nimble fingers of her kind.
She is a product of the prairie,
a princess of the plains raised
to love sun and stars and the feel
of the wind as she races the grasses.
He waits, regal in bearing, overwhelmed
by her beauty, breath caught along
with words in his throat. Her presence
making him conscious of his coarseness.
She halts at the altar, contemplating duty,
intensely aware of the absence of wind
to swirl about her limbs. He takes her
hand as she begins her wedding song.
A hundred years shall pass before the echoes
of her voice fade from these vaulted halls.
for the Sunday Whirl
also shared at Poets United