There is a strange beauty
that creeps under the doorway
around these midnight hours.
Little tealight hours that sometimes
waste away like light on a page,
passing from east to west
like reading the Milky Way
across the night. I remember
when we did that not a month ago,
when I, with my flashlight in hand,
led us down the stairs
from our bed
on the porch
to the shore of the lake
and flung the simple light into the sky
to find out constellations
and stay close in the cold
of Late August, Maine.
Then we hopped up the porch
and slept peacefully, making love
almost as an afterthought,
an addendum
to an already beautiful night.
What more love could
we show than
sharing the clear night sky
and the crisp cold air
with each other?
If two bodies, clasped together,
craning their necks high into the dark,
fingers sharing knowledge
of history's great secrets,
breathing each other's passion
for life into the art of the sky
is not making love
than what is?
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