Light stipples the water sea-glass green.
A thousand diamonds coruscate into existence
at the sun’s slight beckoning. I cannot compete,
for I have no diamonds to give you, only
the raw silk of a peach-colored saree, only
the string of pearls you have hung about
your neck, only the promise of this day, this
moment: golden, warmed by the blissful haze
of new matrimony. You are only twenty-two,
sitting on the opposite end of our dory, rowing
and smiling.

On the banks of the river
willows sway lightly with the wind,
and above them rises a hill of trees (deep,
forest green) and apartment complexes
(toothpaste green), their windows peeping
black and shadowless into our riverscape
while inside, grandfathers take their mid-
afternoon naps, and aunties sit around
kitchen tables, talking in hushed voices,
and – perhaps – 
someone looks out,
watching us, the honeymooners,
wondering at our hands
clasping.

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