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My
Very Own Star
by
Rusty Broadspear
I saw a shooting star last night; in these parts, so very rare.
Such fleeting wonderment, like my thoughts so often are.
Momentary, intangible, covert, clandestine, dashing through the air,
Kings on winged horses, my very own shining shooting stars.
Lucid, exquisite chords soar and circle around the guitar.
Her exclusive and often elusive spirit is heard so near and so far.
Lives seriously, mysteriously, entwined; electrifying and bizarre.
So reminiscent of last night's significant shooting star.
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