Prairie Poetry   
  Flower Girl

Hands that slap
the cow's behind
jut from sleeves
of a suit too stiff.
The white band
from his John Deere cap
encircles his head like a crown.
I'm woozy in this hot,
perfumed church, but suffer gladly
the scratch of organdy
and the soft-pedaled organ
to drop these petals
along my way to him,
not tripping once.
Oh, my uncle,
prince of the pasture,
never mind your bride
behind me, treading
on my sweet violet path.
Where the white carpet ends
I'll leap to you.

  Debra Kaufman
  Copyright © 2008 Debra Kaufman
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