This is the only place on earth
where a soul can come to me
in winter’s deepest hold
with bedroll pieces of their lives and adorn
altars near my igneous boulders . pray
to their maker . sing songs
for their brethren . leave this time
of repentance . falling into
sleep unnoticed but celebrated
when found frozen along my bank.
I am for the romantics.
They etch lovers into my steel everyday
strolling my span gasping
for air love struck with their moment of mystery.
I am here for the other romantics
who have had their thrill of flying.
Those precious beings
who would like to try falling
we are the town of shooting stars
we collect them and tell stories
where we were when they landed
share the wishes we made and how they came true
it is the fire we memorialize with dancers and weeping circles
not the fade away
not a void in our night sky
not their troubled vanish