Do you remember the time we spent watching snowflakes
listening to the soft pitter patter of white bloom
on a windowpane dark with night?
“ Is it the moon,” you asked, small hand in mine
warm curve of sweet honey scented cheek pressed
to my chest full to burst with the love of you
“Is it the moon falling, mama? Or just the stars?”
As if it had to be one or the other in a jigsaw universe
where everything fit Lego block tight in a pattern
painted across the sky.
“Not the moon. Not the stars,” I reply,
Thinking yes the moon, yes the stars,
yes breath of princesses long ago dead
slain dragon’s blood
dust shaken off Bedouin feet before entering
a camel hair tent a world away
precious drop of water stopped, waiting
at the end of a date palm frond
lizard below tongue poised for that moment
when it drops
falls, begins its journey to a Wisconsin night
a thousand years distant
but brought to life anew
by the dreams
of one small boy.
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