Shooting Stars
Light spirals in a black sky,
the signatures we write,
holding our breaths as the tubes
of sparkling white fade
into the dark, all there is of us.
Nights from now, when we
must look past the mirror’s wrinkles,
to deep inside the cone-shaped fibers
that window what is left
of bottle rockets whizzing and ice cream
dribbling, unbidden, down
sticky, happy chins,
what once spun in bursts of fire
so far above us, will thrum again
in the saucered orbs of our children,
those who know the joy
of standing at the precipice edge,
arms flung wide, the belief in loving hands
outstretched to catch them,
all they need to fall.
Ramona Levacy
June 1, 2013
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