Janet M. PowersComing out of the concert hall
I walk into a warm November night
wet with a gentle misting rain.
A glowing bouquet of soft lit globes
reflects another century in sidewalks
of this uncertain new millennium.
Strangely elated, remembering
such nights in another college town
where I wandered forty years ago,
young and lonely but surely blessed
by the gleam of triple spheres
multiplied in the sheen of wet streets,
I am struck by a rush of love
for this earth, this place, this night,
a brief important bolt of joy,
infrequent now but so essential.
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