There will be a mountaintop wedding this day in Shenandoah; soft rain will fall, and I will wear my ballet slippers and dance in the mist.
I like the music and the clouds do not disturb me; swirling cotton floats against my skin.
The bride is lovely; she knows these mountains well, and the valley below.
Angels will come, dressed in mountain white, barefoot, treading lightly in cloud cover.
The angels know things we do not know; pray prayers we could only hope to pray.
They dance and sway to a music no one else can hear; a heavenly choir chanting above.
The mothers stand like statues, remembering the sleepy-eyed toddlers they once sang to sleep, not so long ago.
Oh, those sleepy-eyed toddlers who tossed and turned and refused to rest at nap time; now, they marry on a mountaintop, white lace, rose petals, strung together to mark the trail.
The softest rain falls in the mountains, tears of boundless grace; like goose down feathers on a cold, winter’s night, the clouds are comforting, peaceful.
It is the mothers who feel the brush of an angel’s wing; the guardians of their children are still hard at work, just as they have always been.
There is the waking from a dream, and the sleeping in between, doors that open and close, from the nursery and beyond.
A hush comes in the still of the night; it is as though the mountains themselves are sleeping.
We are not asleep, but awake; the music serenades our souls, and we dance as angels do; expectant, joyful.
There will be a wedding this day in Shenandoah; soft rain will fall, and I will wear my ballet slippers and dance in the mist.
