The far palms are hidden in the mist of the orange street light.
           Crickets sing,
                and there is a great silence.
Now, Meteors, defeat the clouds and show yourselves.

You cannot touch me here under wool and down,
           the cotton scarf covering my ears
                one hand only wrapped in knit,
the other marking with pen under blanket for remembrance of you.

I have seen only two streaks these four minutes past,
           forward toward the south horizon, Orion ahead.
                You, first to fall, are thin as a rain drop, barely seen—
you, second, wide as the quarter moon in your rapidity.

The fog will not outdo you, for you are fire runners.
          Come, come to me, my galaxy thrillers.
                Come, still more quickly, you thrown dancers.
I cannot wait another hundred years for you.

The earth will roll in silence, while dust showers follow.
           Among the stationary stars, you are gone
                in the moment you appear. Orion has moved,
following the line of the land, but does not yet touch the branch tips of my pine tree.

After the cold and pleading wait, now you come, vagrant burns,
           allotting your promise, you joy in light.
               Alone in your hot substance,
your warmth will follow you, as it will in the permanence of my memory.

####

Joanne Stevens lives in Whittier, California.

Her work has recently appeared in Dome (UK), Potpourri, and Time of Singing. She is a longstanding member of the notable Writers Club of Whittier.

She can be reached at MrsMa1@aol.com