We watched the eclipse of the moon
from the edge of the yard
where the curb defined the street.
As the moon grew darker
words of greeting first met.
Orbital in conversation
we determined to see the fragment
each one was of the other.
At the margins time existed.
The moon cleared
and performed its setting melody.
Sun stroked the top mimosa leaves.
Stumbled words invited
a second meeting with intention.
Street lamps wink out.
A date refused to be a cliff’s edge.
A ballgame—so blank linen or parchment.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney