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

one speck.


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.

Sue Boudreau