It was good to be back under
a night sky where distant stars
are without names and dreams appear
with ease. Where faces lost in time
are hidden behind gauze filled clouds
while their voices rise from rivers I crossed in
the past.
Campfires send of curled leaflets of sparks,
blanketing a black velvet space to high
to touch.
Like a thief in shadows, a summer war
of warm and cool passes through the fence,
around roses and over sleeping dogs. There are
voices at the corner, sincere and soft.
Moths find their favorite light. Humid air
paints the skin.
Roger Singer 