Poetry |
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Seated in an old rocker
Shielded from all street lighting I sit waiting in shadow For shooting stars. The clock says quarter past four. A plane passes overhead With a hum and blinking lights. Still no shooting stars. I hear a train’s sad whistle Never before from my porch, Remembrance of camping trips. Where are the shooting stars? I tire of looking upward. I shiver in my fleece coat. No leaves stir, no animals. Suddenly -- one shooting star! A long streak from left to right Speeding across the night sky Disappearing in the dark My own beautiful shooting star! December 4, 2009
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