Lori Witzel's pictures, poems and other souvenirs and artifacts.
The moon’s still fat, that radiant
pearl, but a bit lopsided as it wanes.
A pair of moth wings, tattered and
dusting the front porch, but no body.
No Perseids to be seen, and then I
remember: we’re the shooting stars.
Here's hoping for a good, long, and gently arcing trajectory before we fizzle out!
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