Golden Orb so slowly burned out, descended beyond all trace, save for its selfless beacon beam upon Waxing Crescent’s face
who, in turn, invited every star with unknown name to share the stage for the benefit, Hope’s Grace,
admission for all, free, no matter the creed; for me, I believe the Creator of space so lovingly handmade a place where the light never fully recedes, personally for you and for me.
Beneath my private canopy, I poise my fingers to dance, to sing, but into the world of nature, I float, its most willing visitor captive to hold, to stroke with soft, soothing sounds. Single strands of silver web appear when the intermittent breeze allows; in and out of lines, I likewise weave myself…
I could leave now for the day, or in this poem forever stay…