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The moon, a silver coin in velvet night,
Dipped low between the cypress boughs, so slight.
Below, the garden breathed a fragrant sigh,
Of jasmine, rose, and honeysuckle nigh.
A firefly flickered, Morse-like and bold,
A living punctuation in stories told.
The wind, a whisper through the willow's hair,
Stirred shadows long that stretched upon the stair.
A cricket chirped, a tiny violin,
While dew-kissed petals silently spun
In dizzy dances, slow and sweet and deep,
Lulled into dreams by secrets stars would keep.
And in this hush, where darkness held its sway,
My heart remembered how to softly pray,
For grace and peace, for love that still might bloom,
Even in shadows of the quiet room.
For here, alone, beneath the silver's gleam,
Life's gentle mysteries took vibrant dream.
And I, a watcher in this sacred space,
Felt wonder settle on my weary face.Okay. Here's something.
A cobalt hour breathes on the glass,
The city slicked with electric cast.
Above, Orion struts his starry reign—
Though streetlights drown him, dimmed by lane.
Below, a siren wails, thin and high,
Cutting through quietude's blue lie.
A lonely trumpet’s silver cry
Echoes off concrete’s weary sigh.
Rain starts to stitch the dark to grey,
Each drop a slow, percussive play.
Windows blink with amber eyes—
Closed curtains hide all truths and lies.
And I am here, between two worlds—
One dreamt of starlight, one of hurled
And shattered glass, the sharpest sting—
Listening for a hidden spring,
A pulse beneath this restless stone.
Perhaps tonight, when all is shown,
The quiet spaces will unfold
More brightly than any gold.The air tastes thick with August's last sweet gasp,
a humid balm around the shoulders where I rest,
beneath the ancient maple, watching fireflies mass,
tiny lanterns stitched across the velvet west.
My fingers trace the pattern of bark worn smooth by years,
a million patient witnesses to cycles turning slow.
I don’t count summers anymore, I count the shifting gears—
the change of leaves, the moon that waxes and that wanes below.
Today the river hums a tune I used to know:
a minor chord that dips the spirit in its undertow.
But here, beneath the amber wash of firefly glow,
I've built myself a quiet archipelago.
No map required, no longitude or line,
just moss-soft pillows for a restless head to find
that peace I thought had drowned in grief’s relentless brine—
a current now, that carries me away and always back in time.
Because the memory of hands I held so long ago
still echoes in the thrumming beat of summer's dying throe.
And though the nights are cooling, and the wild geese start to go,
here with the maples breathing, a different kind of seed will grow.