At Summer’s End
Last Saturday
summer evening
soft light and
softer air:
perfect
party.
Two friends
celebrating
one hundred twenty
years
more than half
together
a hundred guests.
Potluck, of course
I brought what was on hand:
(still!)
dressed (yogurt, garlic, lemon juice, dill)
crowded onto the buffet
near a tent
a band played.
Everyone I knew
populated tables, chairs;
perched on stones, walls
settled
on the grass
in clusters
threes and fours
talking
face-to-face:
Conversation.
A woman back from LA,
“The sirens!”
“And the lights –
it’s never dark!”
I know.
If I have to leave
I bring earplugs, eye-shades.
“I like the sounds of night.”
We agreed.
The evening faded
Someone lit a fire in the grass
a giant ball of light rose
in my throat,
“The moon!”
Later,
My headlights tunneled
the blue velvet.
In the dark house
an owl called,
and coyotes answered.
Author, blogger, educator and editor Deborah Lee Luskin often waxes poetic in prose; the evening described herein called out for the compression of verse.