You think it a dream, Love, but truly we met
on the cusp of the full August moon,
and we left foot-deep dust scuffs from romping around
in the shape of your birthday balloons.

I flung you—you spun—and you finally touched down
in a boat made of Mommy’s Swiss cheese,
and we rowed with the cloud fish right over the edge
of that star-studded, breathable sea.

But memories and moons are like Cheshire cats;
they’re going and gone all too soon.
So look up—see the prints that we left there that night
in the dust of the full August moon?

And when all that is left of the
Cheshire moon
is a lopsided grin in the sky,
meet me on the brink of October’s “O”,
and we’ll fill in its rim bye and bye.