Evening Moonlight

The house we stayed in
was 273 years old, built in 1750,
and some of the wood remained unchanged - the kind of craftsmanship since long gone.

When I stepped on the old wood,
I dreamed I was there, in the beginning.
It had three big rooms and a huge kitchen table, large enough to fit a family of 10.

We slept in the biggest room, and you laid on the bed while I opened the window to let in the cool breeze

and the smell of cows, and deer, and flowers - the scent of simpler times.

We let the evening moonlight
fall softly into our room
through its large open windows,
and felt the dark sky all around us,
with only stars and fireflies to give us light.

I said something to you,
and you turned over on your back. The room spun and wrapped us tight, two into one.

We heard crickets,
late into the night,
chirping in the close distance.

They sang to us — a song, about how this house
had been here long before us; and would still be here,

long after we were gone.