Saturday Night

Shadow forest: bruised purple images
reach long across the sun burnt grass:
we need rain, but once again
the forecasters were wrong.
Milky way trails
still vibrant even with the bloated
moon belly hanging like a slightly
crooked picture on the wall of night.

I dance to a country song--
a slow two-step in and out of the pines,
stepping on shadows of what once was
in the arms of what is
under twinkle lights of fireflies
and eons old light.

The cool breath of midnight
sparks desire for a fire. He carries
sticks, a log or two
and I build us fresh coffee.
The dog snores at our feet
as the moon circles, pale, watery
behind gossamer clouds snaking in.

Fire sounds crackle over distant rumble;
perhaps we will get some rain.
The shadows have faded
and tree frogs sing their chorus.
Fat drops hiss into the fire
as we snuggle blanket-wrapped
under the golf umbrella.
The storm's too far away to retreat
quite yet. Companionable silence
speaks volumes, his hand in mind
a library of words we need not speak to hear.