by Nick Gisburne
He shapes the stars, the Maker on the Moon
But few believe the truth of what it takes
He digs beneath the surface with a spoon
And taps the silky shell until it breaks
He lifts a crop of perfect crystal crumbs
And sifts them with a silver sorting pan
The tiny sparkles, sticking to his thumbs
Have waited for his touch since time began
He spins a seed of magic, burning, blue
And speckles it with swirling shards of light
For luck he taps it twice upon his shoe
And gives it to the never-ending night
Remember, when you see the stars above
He makes them shine with secrets, and with love
