I saw it fall from the mist enthralled,
a remnant cast from a lover’s call
long ago, in a place unknown.
It glimmered, and lightly shone
in the starlight cast from a night alone
in the untold leagues of solitude.
It might have been a letter rudely
written to a lover shrewdly
awaiting far below.
It might have been a feather slowly
floating ever down to show me
utter grace within its form.
It might have been a piece torn
from a gown, to lie forlorn
within the dust yet nigh among.
It might have been a spirit shunned
from paradise, and falling stunned
to lay enduring fell unrest.
It might have been a dove bereft
of life, as in falling left
the courtship of its mate.
It might have been a prayer too late
uttered from a soul forsaken
by the powers that be above.
Or perhaps, it might have been true love.
But who am I to lapse
into such conjecturing
as this which I amass?
And yet, even so,
it was laden with intent;
deeply falling into the mist enthralled;
shining brighter as it went,
like a star from hell to heaven.
(Bryan Garaventa, 2002)