Zeus’s majestic, ancient canopy,
dwell in imagination’s pageantry
where I, like Danaë, behold showers of
gold, when ebon skies discharge
blazing meteors bombarding
earth from an apparent radiant,
heavens celestial point,
the constellation of Perseus.
The Perseids cloud stretches
like a bling covered house cat
stride for stride pacing the
Swift Tuttle comet, its orbit
empowered by nubile
dust mixing with debris,
forming a volatile, shimmering,
glittering mass—shooting stars
piercing the firmament.
Predawn fireflies linger too briefly;
their rising tails, crossettes and Dahlias,
dance across the blushing northern
welkin, a transitory aerial spectacle
whose strobing peonies and Saturn shells
dwindle into flickering bottle rockets,
become mere sparks against emerging dawn;
awe struck still, my night sky memories
immortalize fair Danaë’s annual golden rainfall.