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.