July 15 to 31

Shooting Stars

A little porch with roof and sides

Cobwebbed by over hanging leaves,

Led into that old woman’s house;

The lattice windows almost blind

From heavy, leafy brows.

‘Each time we see a shooting-star,

A child is born on earth,’ she said;

‘Six stars were mine, six children born,

But all my little chicks are dead.’

Eyes budded like a cat’s by day,

They only showed sufficient light

To keep her little house all clean-

And flowered full large at night.

For well it pleased the poor old soul

To see the stars give children birth,

Sitting, inside her porch, alone;

Counting those babes, if any came,

And thinking of her own.