This was then, before shadows

pounced at the soul of the city:

orange moons strung by walkways,

golden globes floating on shining surface,

the tea tastes floral or astringent inside smiles.

We slid under the high beaming orb of September,

laughed deeply, and no tears. Love such as that.

So natural, arms about one another,

a tale or song on our lips and as we turned

to watch the crowd, more of the same.

If we stepped away it was to take in marvels.

When we held back it was to drink from

well of fragrant night, trees whispering,

night ponds beaming back happiness.

A Chinese Autumn Moon Festival

pulled every person closer, made designs

of hands and voices, music of colors,

a magic so generous it throbbed

with expectancy of more and as kind

as all we passed between us, eye to eye.

This was then, true, and yet

it lives still within, indelible–

a red lantern a good omen swaying

in the brush and hush of twilit breeze,

falling waters compositions like dancing hearts.

Sky widened, a canopy of luminosity

and every passing hour was safe,

even raucous city greetings

as we stepped beyond the inner gates,

reluctantly, arms linked a moment

before drifting each to home.

Yet in not so far a distance awaited two new moons,

babies yet to join the circle, just

then nested in the jubilance of our daughter

and made stronger, more sublime

by our tenderest admiration

and offerings of the flare of autumn’s peace.