In Praise of Soft Nights
The moon sails high tonight
A shaft of silver so bright
Shining like a halo around each cloud,
Turning the sky into a medieval artist’s
Vision of heavenly light – perhaps angels
Will take flight from star to star,.
I have slipped outside in my
Nightgown and now I stand
In the ruins of our summers’
Garden – brown leaves and
Yellowed fruit beneath my feet.
Where hidden crickets bleat
A hymn to joyous harvest while
Gnats and mosquitoes busily hum along.
Wait! Now I hear the shrill cry
Of a woman in distress and for
A moment, fear – what am I doing
Out this late, not even dressed?
But as the cry repeats I recognize
the screech owl’s voice (So aptly
Named) and bathed in light from
The rapturous moon, serenaded by
creatures singing in the face of coming
doom- No, I will not leave this party
quite so soon.