Tucking their heads in shyness, leaving the sky behind them,
Their flames gentled in the atmosphere to billowing petals of brilliant pink,
With the barest remnant of hot fire burned black, glowing golden coals,
They arch, trying to reach the earth. Held aloft by slender stalk, not of the sky, not of the earth,
a moment captured.
Is the sadness from not reaching their destination or from being suspended in air, never to fly again?
Or is it joy? Frozen in the barest of flight, dancing in breezes, held by trim roots in a varied garden, bringing smiles and bright color in tiny prairie patches?
Ah, little shooting star, you stand too quietly to tell your story.