Poetry

Star Gazing

by Ann Robbins Talbot

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 trainís 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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