We stood beneath a string of globe lights
a row of orange-hued suns vanishing into space.
I was wearing my first real suit,
gray, too long in the sleeves.
It was a party — no, a reception.
Someone had gotten married. 
There was music, and ice in glasses,
a fence beyond which horses grazed —
this was before the storm came
that upturned the tables and nearly
brought down the tent on top of all the guests 
who sought shelter beneath it when the rain first started.
Some of us ran for cover into the barn,
into a dense womb of hay and horse smell.

That night, I planned on telling you that I loved you.
But we were surrounded by strangers. 
So we stood at the entrance of the barn
and watched the rain, the string lights 
flickering and swaying, little comet trails in the wind,
the rain striking the tin roof above us 
and puddling into a thick soup of mud and muck 
that reflected the occasional lightning strike. 
We heard the wild stamping of the horses in the field,
and held each others hands, and I thought, 
this is how life begins.