I step outside to see the Leonid sky. Falling stars, up to twenty each minute. I want to make a wish. Many. It is the season for wishes, but the sky is cloudy. I need some luck, I whisper, turning to see if there is anyone to hear. Nothing stirs. The damp coolness gives me a shiver. What possible hope can there be, I wonder, on such a starless, damp night.
I will wait. Tomorrow night, there will be more shooting stars than this. And the next. How long can the clouds keep out hope? But the fear comes on me. Hope and Fear. What was that carved onto Caravaggio's knife?
No comments:
Post a Comment