the fossil record

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Meteor Shower

In silhouette, I am Santa on the roof

but a couple months early, here

on a whim, waking at two, chancing

the weather man is wrong, that skies

will clear and the Leonid shower

rain over Oregon. Below, my wife

sound asleep, the neighborhood too.

A lawn chair my bed, the sky my ceiling,

I wait and watch.

For what?

When Hale Bopp appeared above

our lilac, I took my wife by the hand

to stand on our backstairs and watch,

telling her no one in all of time had stood

where we were and seen the comet.

As if I could earn her forgiveness,

as if I were a wise man pointing the star

whose passing led to grace.

So long ago.

They come now like raindrops,

almost imperceptible at first,

and then ever thirty, every ten seconds:

I could be charting the contractions

before a birth; each burst rends

the sky, and I am greedy for more,

and watch until my eyes tire.

I lose count but do the math of my life.

Leonid will shower again in 2032.

I would be ninety. The odds

are not good.

Is it enough just to see

this one night all those lights

that have traveled so far, so long?

I grow cold. In the distance, sirens.

An owl crosses the moon. The world sleeps

and does not see me climb the ladder

from the roof, a disappointed Magus,

a cat burglar who failed again

to steal an epiphany from the night sky.

Lou Masson