A shooting star may be but dust
Until it slows against the atmosphere
And flares itself away, and even then
In final glory only for a second,
And even then, alone, unless by
Happenstance a face is turned
Its way at just that fateful moment.
Your dust is real to me now
As mine I hope will be to those who
Someday
By some confluence of miracles
Will for no good reason find me
In a skyward glance and
Raise an eyebrow as they smile.
© 2022 Guy Holliday all rights reserved
