"dipper" poems
I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.
I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.
I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.
I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.
I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.
I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.
I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.
I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.
Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.
I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 6:27 AM UTC
#*Nightbird perches high
beneath the shooting stars
that dapple the bouquet
of sleepless peace
... his soft downy breast
has lent breath
to the sweet April afterglow
heaving with song
The mystical feathered troubadour's
swooning echo
A melodic twilight serenade
conjures a moonstruck metamorphosis,
sprouting magical wings of flight;*
rousing *a lonely heart's esprit
to fly away unfettered
in constellations of song
How dare imaginings spilled from the big dipper
enchant such an enrapturing magic spell?
It's so far to fall from swinging on a star!
It's so far beyond nearing crescent moon
when you wish upon a star
Thereupon struck by a bewitching bolt of starlight;
Dropping asudden as a shooting-star!
Rolling like trailing thunder;
tucked and tumbling ―
somersaulting,
celestial rumbling
blossoming with an unearthly joy
A nascent winged heart splayed bare,
soars upon cresting wind waves;
dreaming of that shapeless
w h o o o o s h ―
gathering beneath
~ uplifting wings ~
Suddenly ― gliding freely,
winging gracefully
upon wafting star drift glitter;
lilting lightly upon the arising cadence
of nightingale's melodious fluted song
Nightingale sings sweet April perfume
beneath the star shed lamplight twinkle
... and it makes no difference if it's only a dream
if my heart had wings*
imagined by: Jesse Stillwater
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
It's cold in Duhallow this morning and the fields that were green yesterday
Lay chilled to the frost that the night brought a cover of silvery gray
And the little dunnock on bare hedgerow too cold and too hungry to sing
On **** branch he perch sad and silent the hardship that January can bring.
The robins and sparrows by back door like beggars they wait to be fed
In hope that when breakfast is eaten the housewife might throw out some bread
With no thought for song or for nesting their battle is to stay alive
How many will live to see April the Winter so hard to survive?
The first heavy snows of the Winter have fallen on the higher ground
On Clara, Shrone and Caherbarnagh the hills are so white all around
The blackbird and thrush on the bare branch their feathers fluffed against the chill
And hare has come down to the lowland there's nothing to eat on the hill.
But I can remember the bright days when sun shone on the leafy tree
And robins and thrushes and finches piped in the woods of Knocknagree
And to her nest on barn rafters the sparrow brought feathers and hay
And out on the dandelion meadow the pipit sang all through the day.
Young calves and young lambs in green pastures were full of the frolics of Spring
And joy too had come to the river the song of the dipper did ring
And moorhen was out with her babies and she chirped loud if human was near
Her first lesson to them survival to teach them the meaning of fear.
It's cold in Duhallow this morning the thrush silent on the bare tree
And gray on the fields and the hedgerows and gray over all Knocknagree
But I can remember the bright days when nesting birds piped all the day
And hedgerows and woodlands and meadows smelt sweet with the blossoms of May.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
My bed may not be as large
As California or have a blanket
As deep as the ocean.
But it’s comfy and shares
The same view as if we were there.
When I am asleep with you,
Everything becomes ideal.
One of the best feelings the universe
Could bestow.
To discover a slice of heaven beside you.
A spoon finding it’s way
To the big dipper, in the same
Lineage of how I see you.
We stargaze with our eyes closed,
Watching the stars bloom like flowers
In complete comfort.
The urge to explore further,
A simple look, a simple smirk
Head nestled deep in a pillow.
The aspirations of becoming an astronaut
Become that much clearer.
I blast off & everything becomes dark
My reflection staring at yours beneath mine,
Until I see your face spread wide
Across the moon.
Happy and safe,
My voyage is now complete
Oct 19, 2021
Oct 19, 2021 at 2:41 PM UTC
An old grave hidden away at the foot of a deserted hill,
Overrun with rank weeds growing unchecked year after year;
There is no one left to tend the tomb,
And only an occasional woodcutter passes by.
Once I was his pupil, a youth with shaggy hair,
Learning deeply from him by the Narrow River.
One morning I set off on my solitary journey
And the years passed between us in silence.
Now I have returned to find him at rest here;
How can I honor his departed spirit?
I pour a dipper of pure water over his tombstone
And offer a silent prayer.
The sun suddenly disappears behind the hill
And I’m enveloped by the roar of the wind in the pines.
I try to pull myself away but cannot;
A flood of tears soaks my sleeves.
6.8k
Between drags of my cigarette,
I lie back on the concrete
and stare into the night sky.
The stars are beautiful tonight, aren’t they?
Not because the air is clear,
or that the heavens are unusually bright
but because tonight I see their depth,
their quiet elegance,
the way they gather into a canvas
stitched across light-years.
The way they align feels like perfection
a harmony born of distance,
comfort found
in the vastness of the abyss.
I trace the Big Dipper,
Orion too.
Not for anyone else,
but for the stone that cradles my skull,
for the roots beneath the soil,
for the spiders weaving
in the leaves at my side.
I’m almost finished with the cigarette now.
But some part of me wants to stay out here,
just me and the stars
serendipity
in their quiet, endless beauty.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 8:20 AM UTC
Constallations, a septette for shining stars
Seven in number, aline like no other, a fusion sign in melting white,
Caught in stellar evolution in the arts of the nuclear, they expand,
Red giants, the final step in their life, before they either blow the layer off gently tossing it into the depth of space, or they go out with a bang
The fall of these great stars, gifting light which is likely to grow life,
A nova which drags their orbital children to the deepest abyss releasing enough energy for a heavenly meltdown breaking hell loose
Stars, standing upon the pillars of creaton planted in there like trees,
Polaris, burn bright in white till you blow up, hell fire don't go out,
In line, with the others, you form a radiant great, or rather big dipper,
Oh you blazing fixed star, northern, luminous and majestic, shine on,
Let this dream fill you up with energy, rumbling deep inside, still you are satisfied, with the reactions, with speed much greater than sound,
A force which would easily break the earths ground, shatter it within moments of a violent dance of might and power beyond any reason,
For the millions, the septentrion shall shine on in a changing dipper,
Until the moment they die.
~ Umi
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 6:37 PM UTC
I looked away.
I looked away from everything bad in my life.
And i saw it.
I saw the stars and the way they danced with each other.
The way they worked in harmony.
I gave into my heart.
I started thinking of you and the way your eyes glistened when the light hit it.
Or the way you smiled when you were talking about something you were passionate about.
All those times i took you for granted and didn’t take the time to think.
The stars aligned,
And my heart aligned with them.
The way the earth danced with the big dipper made me smile.
It made me happy.
Not like a dog seeing their human happy,
But a mother and father seeing their new born baby for the first time.
And that moment everything was right.
I stood staring at the stars instead of my phone.
The social media consumed me until i looked up and saw what was made for us to consume the beauty of.
We take pictures of it but we never admire it,
And one day when it's gone we will realize we should’ve seen the way it looked down at us.
Every night and throughout the day,
It never gives up.
And the way the stars never giving up in us,
Showing us art.
I found shelter from this cruel world.
After many times of falling short all i needed was a look at the stars.
And in star gazing i found everything i needed in life.
I found myself which was more than enough to get me by.
And in finding myself i found love through a constellation.
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 10:33 PM UTC
Across the ocean, you meant nothing to me.
You were a destination, a photograph, a wish.
You plagued my winter woes with your heatwaves,
jumping into creeks in your underwear while I wrapped myself in another blanket, cold Canadian ice princess.
You slept under stars in close contact with beautiful nature, beautiful life, beautiful people, while I stared at them, upside down, from my window.
And then the big dipper dumped you into my lap, head on my chest so you could feel my heart beat and I could tangle my fingers in your hair.
Photographs aren't supposed to come to life.
Beautiful smiles and messy blonde hair are for fantasies and dreaming and rainy days, and not for my bed or my guitar or my lips
But there you were.
For two weeks I thought and rethought and plagued my heart with goodbye is coming. He will fly away from me. We are not birds meant to be caged
We are wanderers, nomads, free-spirits who need no tying down or tying knots,
And I want to tie myself to your bed post with barbed wire because it hurts that much to leave you anyway.
But you leave me.
And there you weren't.
There you weren't as I made up my mind that it's okay to love a nomad, as long as you're one too.
And it's okay to love a bird of flight, just build yourself some wings and follow
But I was mistaken, I was wrong and I was three steps behind you.
Because when you said "I'll see you later" you didn't mean later
You meant get out.
And I still don't know if you're scared or if you just don't want me,
You don't ******* want me.
High as the plane that brought you here to leave me, I stand lace clad, smoke screened and alone.
High enough to feel my lungs contracting with each breath that made my tongue taste less and less like yours,
High enough to feel my knees click where you held them once,
One time,
Because that was all it took.
I couldn't get high enough to stop retracing the lines that your fingers made up and down my sides as you felt the curve of my body for the first time.
My limbs were barren, cold, antarctic as you left them when you took your warm, summer hand away.
So I turned the shower up all the way, until it burned enough to feel like I was boiling my skin, baptizing your sinful touch off of my innocent body.
I burned my arms and legs until they cracked.
They cracked from dryness, even after I wet them with my tears,
And my first,
fourth,
tenth glass of wine.
And I threw the bottle against my bedroom door.
Watched it smash,
Wished it was me.
I'll clean it up later.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC
Skating on thin ice my whole life like a figureskater.
First price on sight but the stripes, resembles a broken picture.
A golddigger... Go figure.
Writing straight from my heart so every bar tender. I remember a night in december,
from a walk in the park to a shot in the dark, I wasnt that cleaver.
Pretended to be concious and smart but now the scars on my arms shows that Im a beginner.
Sober for 3 years yet addicted to your liquor.
Sparked my transmitter when ladys slipper fell off after our first dinner,
But I never knew cinderella was a heavy hitter.
Couldnt connect the dots so now im on the ground with seven stars above my head like I got hit with the big dipper.
PTSD...
But **** all the modesty, I just need honesty...
My writtens a blasphemy (blast for me) but I can't be myself anymore like broken prophecy so God,
accept my apology, beacuse there's a monster inside of me that produces sick thoughts like it knew biology.
Some might say im insane but **** my brain, my heart is always by my side. Deranged thoughts but love tells me when its a lie.
So stay in my lane and embrace the fact that we all are going to die or live to busy and miss the heartbeat that takes you to the otherside.
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
"I knew this girl once,
she had long hair, so long it whispered tiny kisses along her hips and waist
she had the oddest bluest eyes i'd ever seen, the color of the sky right before it gets completely dark
her thick, long eyelashes framed those eyes, and freckles formed constellations across her cheeks
i could almost draw the big dipper and Orion's belt on her milky white face.
She didn't know i existed but i admired her from afar. I could tell she was educated- She always had some form of poetry in her hand. But of all the things i could have noticed about her i noticed her bookmarks. She would lose them all the time, i would see her chasing after the scraps of paper as they flew through the wind down the street. She'd stick anything in between those pages, wrappers of all sorts, leaves, pennies, shoelaces, once i even saw a page ripped from a different book. It became my favorite game to guess what the next bookmark would be. After awhile she stopped chasing the various bookmarks across the city and she cut all that long hair off, then awhile after that she started using unoriginal, uninspired plain old bookmarks.Then even awhile that she stopped bringing books altogether, until one day she didn't show up. Nobody knew that beautiful, mysterious, bookmark making girl was locked up inside her own mind. Nobody knew she hated her long hair and her freckles and even those baby blues. Nobody knew that she couldn't stand to live in her skin anymore so much that she swallowed a couple pills one night to ease away the pain. Even worse was she didn't know i watched her for so long and thought she was the most interesting human being i'd ever encountered. That girl committed suicide because she hated herself learn from her mistake, my mistake, everyone who ever noticed her bookmarks mistake, and don't do this, don't off yourself with a .45 before you've even had a chance to live" he's desperate now
"please please you don't have to do this" he sputters
I answer simply " I never was much of a bookmark girl, i always dog-eared my pages"
bang
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
i seem to only see three constellations in the night
sky these days... the modo -
it be the sign of: the age of scorpio,
there's but the big & little dipper (respectively)
º
º
º
º
º
º
º
do these people really need to be spoon fed?
the smaller dipper is akin to the big
dipper, hence to write in the other
and last constellation (minus that odd rhombus
without a name) -
and believe me when i say: orthodox
astrology doesn't agree with me:
º
º
º
º
º
º º
i guess i managed to draw the right
schematic,
besides the point, there are but
three constellations in the night sky
around here, and one is a revisionist take
on the scorpio...
**** you hippies, and your age of aquarius,
this is what a scorpion looks like,
and nothing what you've indicated,
i'm starting to think that astrologists
did poorly in geometry class...
but i'll end it on a positive note...
*there is more dignity in being ascribed an
epitaph, than being given a "proper" burial...*
and by "proper" i mean: the leech family
members waiting for inheritance,
the sycophantic actors of attendance -
throw me into a mass grave, i don't mind
for a "proper" burial...
there is no dignity in whatever burial
ensues as many will do...
but allow man to transcend
the date of birth ** / yy / zz
and the date of death zz / yy / **
with an epitaph...
however "wise" the man was in life,
his dignity only arrives postmortem,
in the form of an epitaph...
but one epitaph overshadows a thousand
quotable mentions of the man, when alive,
but one epitaph of a david,
overcomes the oeuvre of maxims of a goliath.
whatever argument for light pollution exists,
even when in the scottish highlands
i didn't see any more stars...
there are only three constellations in play
on the night sky,
and one of them is the genuine scorpio
constellation,
with the orthodox constellation being
bogus, fake, unnecessary...
i, i've spotted the constellation of scorpio,
and i did so: with my naked eyes!
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 8:21 PM UTC
Make a wish on a shooting star.
I can only see the northern star
and the big dipper.
Stars are hidden by artificial lights
in the city.
One day I'll run away,
and find my shooting star.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
there was a little mouse he loved a fairground ride
on the roller coaster he just love to glide
sliding riding the bends going very fast
waving to the crowd as he was going past
riding on the ghost train gave him such delight
skeletons and ghouls gave him such a fright.
riding on the track feeling every bump
then a big loud scream this it made him jump.
then on to the dipper high up in the air
travelling so fast he just love the scare.
going oh so fast it would quickly dash
running through the water making such a splash
when his fun was over he took a rest and then
waiting for tomorrow to do it all again.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
she gave me 5 stars
cause the BIG dipper
left scars on her psyche,
searing her soul,
touching her in forbidden places,
tapping new springs
of dieve and decadence
MOTHER OF GOD!
she screams,
tongue untied by throes of passion,
toes curl,
fingers engage
stroking wax off bikini strings
as she rolls over
to insert
a page marker
into my new anthology
of ****** poetry:
the BIG dipper!
coming soon to a booksmith's near you....
~ P
(#theBIGdipper)
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:29 PM UTC
Drive me
to the
moon and back
and maybe we can
take a detour around
the big dipper
and get lost in {the}
s p a c e
between us...
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Calculate the amount of time I waited for you in seconds,
Then you will know the amount of miles the earth is from the sun.
Friendship is often the outcome, of remaining in earth’s boundaries.
I’d settle for Pluto or maybe Mars,
All on their axis, Nothing is more powerful than the stars.
For the stars create imageries, or shoot for millions of miles,
And seeing the big dipper, would often give us smiles.
I’d see the land in which I live,
As I bask on nothing else but faint less gravity.
Occupied by colors, I’d forget about it all,
The beauty of the universe, its atmosphere and all.
The beautiful star, the Sun, shines so bright,
My heart already melting from the painter’s canvas in the night.
It’s time to drive the spaceship, forgetting we were already there.
To many buttons to press, nothing says beware.
So we traveled to Jupiter, The Scorpio and I,
Fearfully in love I close my eyes,
As the spaceship rides, and finally friendship says goodbye.
©
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 7:29 AM UTC
the older generation
thinks we're all meth-heads,
ritalin-riddled serial killers,
serious ingesters
of buckets-of-blood thrillers,
they look at me funny
when I sag my pants
look at me funny
when I've got my girl in my arms
and her hands on my zipper
moving slowly
to the biggest dipper, too loud,
they say,
too loud,
too much cursing,
too much blood and gore,
too many games about getting money
and running over grannies to get more;
Ren and Stimpy,
and
Bert and Ernie,
two homos
that need to burn
for their sin,
the world is going
to hell in a handbasket.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
My skin is speckled
With small, dainty brown spots
Formed by genetics and
Too much sun exposure, too little sunscreen over the years.
Someone once called them angel kisses,
Indications where lips can fall
And rest momentarily,
Just as the angels did to create them.
They freckle my body
Like stars plastered across the sky;
Randomly placed, no real order.
Like ornaments, they are little imperfections to decorate me.
If you'd like,
If you'd please,
Kiss them one by one,
Connecting them into constellations.
Trace your lips along the spots
To form the Big Dipper,
Libra and Orion's Belt.
Your lips become thread this way,
Weaving through these marks
To sew me up, keep me together.
Your lips created a stitch,
Making me your personal constellation.
I'll shine as bright as those stars,
Gleam and glow in the dark as you kiss the spots
Across the landscape that is me,
Your lips ignited them into constellations,
And I'd never felt so alive.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
Laying outside on a creaky old balcony,
On our backs, tangled up together in heavy blankets,
Rubbing our hands and ears
Because they’re getting numb
Thankful for the summer’s gentle night
I drew my eyes away
From the graceful Venus in the South,
A lone golden light shining wistfully
And I finally found the shape of the Big Dipper.
I stare at its lowest corners’ bright star,
An unfathomable size, and even greater distance away
Making me feel infinitely small
Infinitely calm
I trace with my gaze its tail
As icy white sparks fly lightning fast
Through the dripping-ink sky
And burn out faster than a blink,
Barely caught by our drifting eyes
The three of us talk, I sing, maybe to stay awake or maybe to pass the time
Bohemian Rhapsody’s bittersweet melody never sounded so pleasing to me as at 2 in the morning.
Our chatter of secrets is punctuated by gasps
Of us pointing out those bright streaks
We all make wishes,
For love, for luck, for answers
As celestial raindrops keep reaching across the sky
One bright orange jewel with a lavender tail
Burns beautifully by
I wonder why people make wishes upon something that’s dying,
Though spectacular, at the end of its life
“People wish upon things of the heavens”
Is your beautiful reply.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
THE DOUBLE moon, one on the high back drop of the west, one on the curve of the river face,
The sky moon of fire and the river moon of water, I am taking these home in a basket, hung on an elbow, such a teeny weeny elbow, in my head.
I saw them last night, a cradle moon, two horns of a moon, such an early hopeful moon, such a child's moon for all young hearts to make a picture of.
The river-I remember this like a picture-the river was the upper twist of a written question mark.
I know now it takes many many years to write a river, a twist of water asking a question.
And white stars moved when the moon moved, and one red star kept burning, and the Big Dipper was almost overhead.
2.8k
Tonight we’re aligned with the stars
I’m wearing Orion’s belt
You’re drinking in thirsty gulps from the big dipper
The little one’s in freckles on your chest
And now I can hear the wind chimes
On the porch
I can hear the leaves
Of the Bradford Pear
I can hear the cats and dogs and coyotes and deer and owls
Making nighttime noises
I can hear mom snoring in the house
For one of the last times
I can hear the trampoline springs creaking with age
And feel it bouncing and swaying under us
Like it did in its heyday
I can hear you sniffling, sister,
I can hear you crying
Your warm wet tears
Are drowning my ears
Like all those summers we did swim team
When I take your hand
It’s smaller than I remember
It’s Abby circa ‘99
Though you didn’t let me hold it then
And I never tried
Now our hair is curling in swirling halos
Around the same face
Mom’s face
We never did look like Dad
Now we’re gazing at the same stars
Under the same March sky
Thinking, saying, “God is good”
Saying, believing, “How can He not be?
When the sky looks like this”
Believing, knowing, that it’s true
Even while our hearts are rocks,
Our hands are clay,
Our minds are swarming
Teeming
Buzzing
Hives
But “God is good”
“How can He not be?
When the sky looks like this”
When our mother is a fish
How can He not be?
We know:
“God is good.”
While we’re reading the Braille of the sky
Two foxes slink by
Now we dismount the trampoline and go inside
Where we hear Mom snoring
For one of the last times
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC
The sky was so clear this morning I could have connected the dots from the Little Dipper to the Big Dipper.
As I drove home from the cafe on the corner... I remembered something I couldn't quite believe I forgot.
I remember the way the morning air felt when we walked across the lawn. After the rain had fallen so hard we could smell the freshness the next day.
I remember the brightness in your eyes when you looked at the map and pointed at this random dot with some strange name and said this was to be our next big adventure.
I remember the smell of your hair as we cuddled under the stars on a clear night just like this morning...
I remembered this because you were there... You were the reason I could connect the dots of constellations so far away.
You were the reason I wasn't afraid of random dots on a map.
You were the reason the rain made me smile...
I just smiled and drove home to think about you... And I hope you're doing okay.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
Passion is simple.
Passion is tipsy talks with your best friend on a saturday night,
passion is sleepy sunday mornings waking up beside someone you care about.
Passion is spelling your name in the air with sparklers on new years,
passion is a pancake breakfast on christmas morning.
Passion is stargazing in the countryside,
passion is not really knowing much about constellations but always being able to find the big dipper no matter where in the world you are.
Passion is laughs that make you cry,
passion is crying all night until you have no more tears left.
Passion is waking up at six am to watch the sun rise,
passion is napping in the afternoon sunlight.
Passion is watching a thunderstorm on your front porch,
passion is the smell after it rains.
Passion is not knowing where you want to go but knowing you are going somewhere,
passion is simple.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
In the dark we marked tattoos of
disintegrating constellations
on our rib cages,
our fingernails filled with ink.
We were told they would last
forever on 19 year old skin
when carved on the night where
each fallen brother of Sun kissed
our mid-August goosebumps.
The weight of our bodies
cut into the grass.
We came back the next evening to
watch these human Grand Canyons
sink deeper to Earth's liquid center
underneath flashlight flickers of an
approaching thunderstorm,
each bolt echoing on the hearts
of Lake Michigan fish.
The trees fell inside our craters
as we walked backward to my car,
fearing for our lives, but
immobile from each reaching meteor.
Perseus fell through Earth's granite throat,
parabolic melting of night sky.
Collapsed Big Dipper and Ursa Major
illuminated our chests
over shadow of dying white pine.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC