Mars has been the moon star this week.
In the east each night just past dark,
It chased, it caught, it passed the moon.
The full moon chased it down the west,
And both set in a cloud of mist
That rose from the lawns just at dawn.
The true stars, which tell us we’re not
All—not most, much, nor the least part
Of the whole show—twirled their dark stage,
And a small man with bent glass bones,
Who hid out in a plain bare house
With a wall to mark its squared scrap
Of turf, went to bed with the rise
Of that moon star and rose with set
In the mist and said, my sand box!
Friday, October 30, 2020
Sand Box
