I once asked our nine-year-old granddaughter what she most liked about her visits to Tucson. She replied unhesitatingly that it was the night she, Lil and I sat cuddled together under a blanket on the back patio and watched the moon rise over the Catalina mountains. It was dark and cold. We sat looking into the blackness until a faint profile of the mountains slowly started to appear, and then a silvery glow began to emerge behind Mount Lemon. It grew brighter and brighter until the silver flash of the upmost curve of the moon exploded over the peak of the mountains. We watched in silent awe as the moon rose into the sky in its full splendor.

And I remember the poem written by my Aunt, Katherine Woodman

IS THIS WHERE WE MEET

Is this where we meet, John Moon
In a frozen night when old snows
Thinly cover the brown land?
Our glances flit through fir trees,
Tall bare trunks; you brush my cheek
Reaching lightly over my shoulder,
Then swing around in the sky
Till we meet face flooding face.
So we ride through the night, John Moon,
Finding no particular reason
For such unexpected mating
In this cold season.