Round and rimmed with glee,
the moon’s face is no mystery tonight.
He’s just a happy old man
surrounded by his children,
those Van Gogh stars that adore him.
Such sparkle they make;
it’s a regular light show convention,
The sky is a domed ceiling
that shelters the like
of the contented and splendid.
Beneath the benevolence
of a sable night, a mother hums
the tune of a sleeping song
to her restless son.
Each note rises light as a feather
to sprinkle the boy with stardust.
His chubby fingers
twine through the mane of Pegasus
as off they fly to the land of dreams.