by Gloria Viglione
Yellow columbines abounded the afternoon when we met,
a hummingbird at every blossom—thatís 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 cricketís metallic murmur immediately pierced
our silent moonlight walk—
how our eveningís sweet symphony
settled into the ostinato of each otherís paired breath.
Iím 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.