What anchors me here is no sense
of urgency, no mission, no calling
the love of my children
tendrils of
hope that curlicue
around wafting leaves
only to escape
into dappled light flickering
from a street lamp or the moon
or perhaps a bonfire in the aboriginal outback
when roasting marshmallows for s'mores
was the greatest challenge
finding the right twirl to assure
golden brown or flamboyant flames
smooth and sweet or the crunchy grit
of victory won in audacity's grasp
yearning irrepressible for sweet sticky nectar
unsheathed from the charred ruins
bursts in my mouth
trickles
down my throat
followed by a sip of champagne
your lips
on mine
the
shudder of ecstasy
photo: Moon and fireworks over Nice, France, 2019
