The moon rises
above an arched gate.
he reads poems
in front of stiff-tall bamboo
near the unfinished garden shed.
we sit in dining chairs
aligned with the patio bricks.
open-mouth-smiles perfume the air
with beer and burgundy.
squirrels rush the branches—
applaud too soon.
A vine past its bloom
crawls on a trellis,
the root appears dead
yet the live ends
are laden with leaf.
-by Shannon P. Laws
