If I Were a Poet

The Sweet Taste of Night

Now again
she remembers the sweet taste of night:
rustling leaves, moonlight and
curved paths leading nowhere
but already there.

One hand holds an umbrella;
the other hand wants
another’s hand to hold.
She remembers the lilacs in the plaza
beside a fountain that sang,
promising “you will always be beautiful.”

All this she remembers,
while quietly unpicking the stitches of her life
until abruptly she encounters a knot:
A voice, strong and comforting,
transporting her into an electric world
of laughter and dancing,
promising “I will always be here.”

Then, suddenly the knot is untied.
There is no other voice, no face
in her dreams except her own.
As the moon rises above the city walls,
she also rises and begs another chance
to stand in the plaza and taste the night.