Those nights

In tribute to my friend Niamh, and in memory of all the shiny beings whose light changes our lives.

Early August,
and the heat hung heavy off the branches of summer,
like the towel you left outside
drenched from the downpour.
It was only a cool drink you wanted.
You’d be right back.
But, the smell of ripe peaches lured you into lingering,
and the storm blew up
while you were wiping juice off your chin.

Those nights,
the moths on your windows whispered secret songs,
their velvet tunes barely audible
above the wildwood cacophony.
It was only a future you wanted.
You’d be ready when your boat came in.
But, you helped others aboard
and stood on the tempestuous shore
while the spray took the dust off your wings.

Sometimes,
round and pale like honeydew,
the moon called to you from her place above the din
and waited while you found your drum.
It was only a memory she offered.
You couldn’t recall the whole scene.
But, the music was familiar, the taste on your tongue like nectar,
and you were sure that you’d danced in the rain.
You’re laughing now, aren’t you, remembering?

~Elizabeth