By George Murphy
No city lights scrape away our stars here.
The wind comes and goes in darkness, and owls softly boom,
as small creatures rustle through the dew.
The piney crushed-flower smell of the world at night
wafts through the window. When I look out I can’t see anything,
except for fireflies, and a tiny slip of crescent moon.
When my eyes adjust everything glows,
and who can say where the stars end and the fireflies begin?
We walk to the beach in the last blue of dusk,
lie tumbled on the sand, and trace movements in the sky.
Each night now Saturn is closer to the horizon, the moon coalesces
and we will be gone as soon as it’s taken a new phase.
How many crescent moons will you remember me for?
I want to be your wandering star, but I’m afraid
that I’m just a meteor streaking through your atmosphere,
never to be seen again.
Soon enough the sand that we’re lying on will be washed into the depths,
the wind will carry away our breath and we will spin out of this orbit,
we’ll wake up in the morning and leave all this behind.
But we don’t care tonight, we are freer than falling stars,
because when we run back it’s as though we’ll run forever,
and when you take my hand it’s like you’ll never let go.