Leonid Meteor Shower with James
I.
Our bodies clothed against air cold
enough to freeze water where it stands,
James and I stand and look skyward, to the northwest,
sipping coffee in the dark of our yard.
Crazy enough, we two,
to watch rock burn in the sky
as the matter and the atoms of the matter
break down,
component parts reassembling
into something altogether new.
II.
This, we will not see again.
90 years will pass.
We will not see
this rain of rock
of fire of ash
mingling with the air we breathe.
We will not taste on our tongues burning
sky, crackling energy, as steam
from our breath swirls a silvered
motion away from our bundled up selves.
Big as fists, big as elephants’ heads, as small as a grain of sand,
meteors
sizzled dark sky two hours before dawn
November’s July 4th fireworks
raining bright fire
down on us,
incandescent particles
exploding into air connecting us
to all that is in
this infinite expanse
where we spin in perfect symmetry.
III.
90 years will pass,
politicians will die.
Captains of industry will die.
Priests will die.
And monks.
And James.
And me.
Before meteors meet us again,
lighting a dark night with embers,
we will all die.
IV.
Bringing fire,
meteors will shimmer a dark sky,
they will pour upon the earth,
spread dusts from places we have not seen,
they will come again
out of darkness as before
when the world still steamed in the chill
from its new birth.
They will bring with them
fire, a breath they will breathe
into bones and dust and ash,
they will breathe into the air, stain the sea,
vapor into clouds a fresh mattering.
Who will stand in the cold dark then?
Who will smell the fire in the night?
Will they coat themselves against frost and ice,
drink the black coffee of morning before light,
will they delight in a spectacle of fiery mists,
will they fix their eyes on heaven?
© 2008, Shawn Pavey. All rights reserved.
Writing on the Wall with Crayon 