Tempel-Tuttle takes her time orbiting the sun.
Slow, but fierce. Leaves her signature
and when Earth crosses her path—
an orchestrated show of light.
Just before dawn,
you lie on the concrete sidewalk
five hours behind the East Coast,
a symphony of birds
singing the morning awake.
You snap pictures of Jupiter, Venus and Mars,
the distance between immeasurable with just the eye.
Then Leonid's radiant falls through the constellation Leo
and the shower changes everything.
I ask when you'll be home.
You answer, right quick.
Just after midnight,
I lie down on a cold driveway,
dead leaves scratching its surface.
Above me, pines and red oaks tip-toe
their way to the northern sky.
My Scorpio lives by the moon.
Has a hard time forgetting.
Your Aries lives close to the edge of Mars.
We will forgive each other for this every day.
The comet lumbers along.
The meteor shower comforts.
Mother Earth spins.
Right quick takes on new meaning
in space. Thirty-three years to orbit
just once? We are experts at waiting.
