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 with my root beer and a bad case of the nerves.
He sat with a glass of Irish Whiskey.
“Lighten up,” 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.
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.