Shooting Star
Two cars nestle in a snowy drive.
Old dog and young
swoon on couch and rug.
A shooting star fails to find its mark –
touching the eye, but not the heart.
I shuffle from the kitchen to the back
where sliding glass
stands in cold divide
of me
and wide and drifting night.
The door is cool against my hand,
paints my portrait in its glass,
and through my chest
sunken lanterns cast
their nimbus in the night.
They are not far from here,
in fact, a short, cold walk
on what once had been the path.
But, our furnace finds its spark;
the door stops steady in its track.
In soft, warm whisper
the house calls me
from change, from chance,
to slumbering down and comfort
on this side of the glass.