by Julene Waffle
“I can read a newspaper by
the moonlight tonight,”
she said, looking out the
window above the kitchen sink.
I knew it as a brief
invitation,
scratched quickly on air,
to sit and watch the
interstitial moments
of deep dusk turned night.
Moon-shadows dripped from
tree branches
like honey-glaze on
fresh-baked biscuits,
and breezes carried crushed
fern and summer tree
musk down the mountain on
their backs.
Under wind-tousled hair, we
held our breaths
as nocturnal shadows danced
and
jumped from tree to tree,
memories of midnight
dreams.
Peepers chirruped their
love songs;
their lovers answered
flirtatiously.
Bats swooped silently for
insect supper,
and evening birds tittered
and whispered,
buttoning the last vestiges
of day to close.
On nights like this, we’d
sit on the porch
amidst unfinished chores
and stories untold
in thin night dresses and
slippers, ready for sleep,
willing witnesses, yet bed
and pillow
insufficient temptations.
Together,
we’d sit and listen
in our own silences.
Eyes closed, she’d soak in
the damp of
night and heart-whisper her
own love songs and dreams
and memories.
Sometimes her lips would
curl, flatten, or oh,
forming thoughts on air
but uttering no sound.
Her white hair brushed out
and standing on end,
a crown of wisdom or a
cloud of doubt,
I didn’t know which.
And me, afraid to listen,
afraid to not,
I’d watch her, hoping to
learn something,
but I couldn't tell what
except to say I wish I had
asked.
© Julene
Waffle. All rights reserved.
Julene Waffle is a mother of three boys and
a secondary English Teacher for over 20 years in a small rural upstate New York
school. Her love of language was perpetuated at Hartwick College and Binghamton
University. Her poetry, speaking to the everyday people of her everyday life,
is widely published.
