Virginia Starrett

In the porch lantern light

they watch gypsy moths

criss-cross a hedge

of purple verbena.  How erratic

yet pleasing the rest and flutter

choreography of each winged insect—

a love dance by silk angels

barely kissing each blossom, then

rising, fanning moonstruck air.


The man laughs and moves close

to the steps where she sits.

She leans back, tilts,

looks up into his eyes.

The screen door slams. His wife

(her best friend) brings out

fresh squeezed lemonade.

A couple… plus one,

   they toast the summer moon.