His life a small but perfect circle,
when he slipped away with the Perseid meteor showers,
just the dust that Earth spirals through every August,
in our galaxy neighborhood, nothing magical in that.
Clouds of coalescing remnants of exploded stars,
the rhythmic destruction and creation
on a quite different time scale to ours.
As if a life represented even
Perhaps the planet exhales souls
and revisits them,
attracting them back
to burn up in tiny, bright trails,
consumed in momentary glory
as brief as us
in the grand scheme of space.
Are children’s souls brighter than
long lives well lived?
than lives filled with lost chances
and unlucky circumstances?
Children’s bodies soldier on,
it’s the organism’s imperative
A child’s life tears away reluctantly,
instead of memories, small-scale hope.
One more day, tomorrow will be better
And then I read his father’s
“small but perfect circle”
written for his ten-year old, youngest son.