Who makes
this comforter of stars?
Who stitched together
the firmament of heaven,
first weaving rainbows into
fabric of the night,
then, torn and spun into patterns,
carefully refabricates,
backing with a cushion of light,
tying it all together with silver threads
to drip the morning dew
and tucks it in around us?
Who tiptoes from the room
leaving the door
open just a crack
in case we should awaken;
Who leaves this thin gold beam of light
to reassure us in the dark?
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