It was just one of those nights,
every log fit perfectly on the fire.
The moon was still waxing,
just about a turn from full,
so that we were all crazy with its light,
but still building.
The surface of the water held up a perfect mirror.
There were rooftop stories,
there were songs in the alley.
The cherry tree finally blossomed.
The attic was empty,
but the bowl never was.....