The Meteor Shower

The poet is the child of the moon,
Reflecting all the living light the sun
In graciousness will not withhold. The loon
Can hardly sing a mournful song to one
Who wishes he could say what can’t be said
To those who in the sunlight can’t be fed.

 

I watch the sky to see the stars, to see

The dust and tiny meteors now streak—

Perhaps the stars will fall, or stay for me—

In colors of the fireflies I seek

Among the trees that partly block the moon.

I cannot dance. Perhaps I’ll see her soon.

 

The prophet always speaks in complex verse,

And so the sun in metaphors speaks true

To those who have the ears. I cannot curse

My gifts. I read the sky. Night’s almost through.

Perhaps there’s nothing left for me to see,

But I suspect the sun won’t set me free.

 

The lights are flickering. The fireflies

Are seeking mates. The falling stars are seeking

No one. Warmth, love and nothingness defies

The meaning which we make, are slowly leaking

Into the world where people meet—each verse

Brings greater life. Denial brings the hearse.

 

I listen to all the blue sun has said,

Reflect it like the moon and give the gift

The sun expected me to give. It led

Me, fed me, read me so that I could lift

In flickered patterns like the fireflies

The hazy messages where deep truth lies.