by Michael Keshigian

Those nights illuminated by the moon
whose white dagger severed the wet surface,
highlighted the stalks upon Gypsy Glen
which stretched off the shoal
into the crooked air
and Winnipesaukee wore a tarnished chink
upon its silver armor.
The tall pines, stilled by the sheen,
waited till their presence
faded back to distorted disfigurements
to acknowledge the breeze.
The cold air was always crisp
and smelled of wild roses
that circled the shoreline,
exposed as the moon’s silver eye
adjusted its stare toward the brush
and patches of mulch
gingerly caressing the lapping lake.
On nights such as these,
he would gaze at the cottages,
nesting beachside, their lights flickering
in night’s magnificent isolation.
Little did he suspect
that this moment of adoration,
the opportunity to commune,
would become a longing
that would follow him.