Anniversary

We turn off the door lamp as
lightening bugs rise like phosphorescence
riding waves on the night sea, and trees are
backlit by an orange sky fading to gray but

not yet black, no moon. Smoke lingers
from the match we use to light three
candles: one in an Autumn Harvest cup
smelling of pumpkin and fall; one tall

in a brass candlestick that belonged to my
mother; one squat, thick, deep purple –
the flame looking as if it were suspended
in the evening air, dancing with itself.

As the stars come out, our talk turns
from the doings of the day to the things we
speak of only in the intimacy of darkness:
secrets, longings, regrets, intuitions.

Your eyes mirror the flare and flash from
burning wicks, a tiny breeze shuffles things
in the shadow.  Speech is no longer needed as
we sit in silence with stories we know by heart.