By the Light of Lost Stars
Climb fast, quiet as a moon shadow at the rise of the Bleak Tide
toes mutter secrets to the jagged stone stairs that go too high.
And at the topmost plinth, sits a fox, mourning as his stars died.
Deepest tints of the soul’s despair bleed into his pilled sock hide,
ears drooped with the weight of the weary, as sleep comes nigh—
Climb fast, poke a hole in the sky, mold it, find the Firefly Tide.
Socks fox bereft. His stars, those stories, nonsense voices chide.
Climb fast. Hold true. For he waits, listens for a flint edged sigh
to find the plinth where he keeps vigil for a star that refuses to die.
One star left, a world being consumed by torrents of injured pride.
Look to the sky as it weeps for its lost stars. Find the star. Try—
Climb fast. Feel the face of the stones, heed the thrall of the Tide.
Catch a glimpse of Turtle’s gleam, take a leap, and catch a ride.
Shut your eyes, take the light of lost stars, trace stories in the sky.
Touch the plinth, there the socks fox waits where his stars died.
In fits and starts, star by star, Lores in the constellations still hide.
Touch a tale, set the stars alight. Blow a wish on a dandelion sigh.
Those words, his stars, Star Socks Fox shine, reset the Firefly Tide.
Ride, hold tight to Turtle, rise. A constellation that will never die.
Image by <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/layers-24...mp;utm_campaign=image&utm_content=4796515">Layers</a> from <a href="https://pixabay.com/?utm_source=lin...mp;utm_campaign=image&utm_content=4796515">Pixabay</a>