That Kiss
by Gloria Viglione

Yellow columbines abounded the afternoon when we met,
a hummingbird at every blossom—that’s how I want to remember you—

with your out-of-key love song over dinner that sent waves of laughter
mixed with raindrops, though the sun was still shining—

how the cricket’s metallic murmur immediately pierced
our silent moonlight walk—

how our evening’s sweet symphony
settled into the ostinato of each other’s paired breath.

I’m left with hollow lament and braided sighs,
now that Monday has come around again.

You and I are no longer young,
and this is what I know—

the appraisal of a kiss beneath a star-decked sky
is worth a thousand sunrises. At least.

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