Do I dare try to explain the majesty of this night?
The amber sunset, rose gold on white weatherboards?
The life force that is nature-strip grass pulsating up through bare feet?
A happy tongue lolling out the side of happy fangs,
nothing but open to the possibility of every driveway,
every gap in every fence?
Or the way red roses demand to be smelled,
invisible sweet fingers beckoning: Come hither?
I am a slave to this night.
To my greyhounds wonton desires,
criss crossing the street.
To the raindrop scent of a lazy front yard sprinkler.
To the cotton candy barely afloat in the sky.
Could I reach out and take it?
Could I pluck tonight from the sky and put it to my lips?
The way I long to do to the figs loaded heavy on the tree across the street?
Could I steal the etching of the pine tree silhouetted against the purple resin tilted across the night?
No
It’s impossible to freeze a bubble mid pop,
impossible to explain how big it was,
how pink,
how sticky,
to someone who wasn’t there.