Was never a night where
the stars hung like hangers from a warped, darkened attic
the vaulted vastness
of sightly lights frighten by flashes splayed so slight
teachers taught me about the sky
that the shine of stars is a relic from years gone by
an old flame
many a multitude of beams
like white seeds against fertile soil
held not the moon in place with whispered conversation
ought not replace smiles in exchange for sun
fixed my fingers into fists, folded my arms
preventing the digits from pointing to far places
in fear of causing the moon to rise before it’s time.
Rather I sat sharp,
face taunt with humble aspirations,
heavens highly aware of my impressive influence.
What a charm to be jewelry on the universe’s arm!