The lamps in our life
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.