“Exquisite” is the only name for it, one of those clear, warm
Saturday nights in the Pacific Northwest,
good blues music at a small outdoor venue as the sun begins
its descent,
some of the audience dancing on the grass, free-style,
waving their arms as if calling down the gods
to keep the night alive for one more song.

Soon after,
they stumbled upon a nine o’clock happy hour at a nearby inn,
surprised, pleasantly,
to eat fresh crab cakes on beds of arugula
and stem glasses of white wine at a bargain price
so late in the day.
The conversation a bargain, too, so rich in warmth and insight,
the promise the two new friends bring to the table
materializing before their eyes,
as they look into each other’s, all pretense replaced
by a sense of openness and connection,
the easy exchange of words soothing them
into the night.
A tender night, it turns out, full of surprise and wonder,
as they hold and touch,
the language of passion and pillow talk creating its own poetry
lulling them finally into a dreamless sleep
where only angels gather.

Sitting in bed, sipping coffee,
sleepy and content,
the new lovers, awaken slowly to the new day,
the cool early morning air, riding on the sun’s rays,
makes its way through the open doors
nudging their senses.
When they look out through the doors, they see it:
The slight breeze and the sun’s light, commingled,
wafting and rustling through the surrounding trees,
light and shadow at play,
creating a masterpiece.


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