It was the last best night in October.
The air smelled like it was still August as I wandered the English Gardens.
Weeds were masquerading as flowers,
and I was masquerading as ...
writer - liar (the same?)
preacher - poet (closer?)
I sat across from Irish Whiskey.
He sat across from root beer and a bad case of the nerves.
úLighten up,î he said. And I did.
Irish Whiskey performing miracles
(mine had been limited to turning wine into water)
I desperately want to remember what was said over dinner
but can¯t for the life of me.
Dinner is over and we seek a pulpit for me to be writer-liar-preacher-poet,
and settle for a random picnic table,
now lit by the last best moon of October
and I preach the sermon that has become my life
(no amens from the drunk couple having an argument a few feet away)
I¯m not ashamed to cry at my own words.
There is no altar call,
You just turn my face with your hands and gently kiss me ...
water into wine,
sorrow into hope, despair into joy,
words into silence,
faith into substance.
A simple kiss with your whiskey breath
captures my heart and for better or for worse
forever changes the way I look at an October moon.