The lamps in our lives

gaslight our eyes

until we walk out the screen door

to welcome autumn moonlight

into the sweep of our sight 

gazing upon the same lunar guide

as our ancestors of old

who draped themselves in animal skin

to survive a Quebec winter

with the promise of an April petal

blooming like the baby bruise I wailed over 

when I slipped out of your hands. 

I stand beside you now

under a waxing smile 

where we smile back

into a singing cicada night.