Meeting at Moonlight Bridge

     No one has asked me about the process I use to write poetry--if only so it doesn't happen to them, but I am going to tell you anyway. Poems come to me in one of two ways:  I have an idea or feeling that is too big for prose and I simply need to find the right words to express it. What I value most in those poems is accuracy, they must be true to what I am trying to express. The other way I am afflicted with poetry is when a line comes to me and I, as the author, am curious to know what the poem is about. Those poems may be a composite of different things that have happened or even things that never happened. The following poem is one of the latter. It began with one line, the first. All that was left for me to do was find out what the poem was about. Turns out, it was a love poem. A young person might find it cute that someone my age could write a love poem. Apparently, I have a either a (please excuse font problem, I can't figure it out) good memory or a good husband. I have had some beautiful moments standing on that bridge in the moonlight, but it is hardly part of our regular married routine. Now that I've both bored you about my writing and removed the mystique from this particular poem, enjoy!

 Meeting at Moonlight Bridge

It was all of silk and silver,

the clouds in moonlit sky

the gurgling of the river,

like laughter, passing by.

That is the place I meet him

 when our day’s work is done--

the bridge between the refuges

of island and of home.

                                      

I revel in the beauty

and romance of the night,

my body is old and heavy

my heart is young and light.

When my lover comes to me

the moonlight hides the truth,

he sees me as I looked to him

when we were in our youth.

And I see him through eyes of love

the years have made more clear.

They bridge the space between the hearts

that meet in moonlight here.

Our laughter mingles with the sound

of river and of wind,

our hair like silk and silver

our hands and hearts entwined.

This bridge shall be a witness

when love’s great tales are told

of meetings in the moonlight,

of lovers young and old.