Reaching out a mitten-covered hand towards
the sky, she began to untangle
hastily-strewn stars that hung
together on tight, invisible strings.
(So messy, she would say.)
Deciding that rather than
cutting up paper stars at home,
she'd walk into crisp night air
and catch one of her own.
(But no one will believe her.)
Cupping the star close
to her heart, she remembered long
car rides to her grandmother's house,
the moon only a sticker that she could
peel off the canvas called sky
and place secretly in worn jeans.
(And the gentle shifting of memories.)
It was the story of the stars and the moon,
and it was not until when she herself
became a constellation, did she feel
(It was all that she needed.)