I Love the Moon, But, by Roger Stevens
I do, I love the moon
When I'm lying on my bed, that big, yellow balloon
And the stars can't touch it, when it shines so brightly.
But I get to thinking, as I lie there
Waiting for sleep
That its light is a second-hand light
And however much you say you love the moon
It's just a slab of rock
And it means that sleep is not too far away
And your world is lost, like the passing day.
But in the morning,
Well, that's different.
The sky changes, those colours, subtle at first, but soon...
You can't even begin to do the dawn justice
In a poem.
As the birds start singing, shouting their noise.
It's not a chorus, it's a cacophony of joy,
It says, We're here, and the light's back,
It's back!
Oh yes, I love moon, but
When the sun comes around again
And the light returns
That's something else
First Fig, by Edna St Vincent Millay
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends --
It gives a lovely light!
Bright Spark , by Michaela Morgan
Crouched cold in a cave,
Huddled against the night.
What bright spark first made fire? First made light?
A flash that made the world grow,
blazed spirits light, let faces glow.
To see each other. Nod yes, shake no.
Art is possible. Stories can be shared.
Not now so lonely, silent, scared.
We can take flight.
Build a beacon.
Light
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