The Perseids

by Birdie Rose

Every year she awaits
the arrival of the Perseids,
those familiar friends stream
like curtains, just behind,
the silhouette of hands,

“Hello,” and “Goodbye,”
in the same instant
and meaning the same.

Every year they fall
in familiar voices.
They sing swift

in silver and blue.
She cannot tell
if the song is sad

or joyous, and that is okay.

Their presence breaks through
cloud banks and hot saltwater
where the sky and the ocean
are the same color.

There is no difference there,
either, or here

or anywhere.

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