LAST NIGHT

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.

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