Witching Hour, Mid-July

Hear the sounds of the witching hour;

crickets hum and trains sometimes whistle

and it is not quiet, but it's close.

We are soft-spoken and spirited,

never breaking the almost-silence,

never surrendering our voices.

You have an infectious honesty,

and there is nothing I couldn’t tell you

except, perhaps, the truth.

Feel the air of the witching hour;

cool and thick in the blackest reaches

of each summer night.

It envelops us completely,

and openness abounds

as we two stagnant voyagers

wander our serpentine paths.

We carve out forks, and turns,

and so many crossroads.

See the sights of the witching hour;

half-closed dandelions and forlorn headlights,

ambassadors of everything that daylight hides.

The warmth in your laughter

glows among the fireflies,

and our little world is liminal,

but we will help each other face the real one.

Sometimes I can’t look them in the eyes,

but I have memorized yours.

Taste the sweetness of the witching hour;

midnight snacks and honeysuckle

and every word we say.

My longing for you is as irrevocable

as the hour is short, so here is

the truth, from me to you:

I used to be scared of the dark

but because I love you,

I can see the starlight.