Maybe it was the poetry and singing,
maybe the drums and dancing,
but we are not ready for the night to end,
so head east through a darkened city

until we reach the lake and there,
floating free of tree limbs,
city lights, and rooftops,
find a full moon, white against the dark sky,
its path shimmering bright
across the still water.

We park, our shadowy figures sitting
in a darkened car on an empty street.
“Up to no good,” a neighbor might say,
not noticing our age, our white hair,

but what good would it do to leave
such a sight, on such a night
until we have had our fill,

until we remember other moons
in other times and places,
singing our memories into the dark night
before turning our faces toward home.


© by Kathleen Phillips.
Used with the author’s permission.