Our last reunion moved the bells to chime Trees echoed soft green lichened paving stones Beside them sang the whip-poor-will in time (Its poem urged us not to sail alone) The hot veranda skies were bleeding red As nighttime sighed and waited for the sun The sun returned to listen for the dead (The sounds of morning only just begun) We knew our pasts would haunt us over time Yet settled in the warm dry meadow weeds While nightingales sang endless looping lines (The afternoon was starting to recede) As evening breezes wrapped us up entranced The western winds blew in for one last dance