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)