I will go back to that silent evening
sitting with a friend by the flame of a small candle.
What a day we had, following busy geese
along riversides, sipping something hot
in slow coffee shops, smelling cinders
in the air as afternoon melted to dusk.
Right then, I wanted to write a poem,
but we made pie instead while we
coaxed memories to do their shy
unraveling and rebuilt each other
bone by younger bone. Outside,
just a sliver of moon, but light
plenty to dust the room in glow—
ah, God, how unsubtle You are
when I’m paying attention
enough to see days unwrap themselves
like unforeseen gifts.