Sometimes I feel as battered as the moon
And as cold, as alone, and as old.
But when we are building towers out of blocks,
Hunting tigers under the bed or rolling gingerbread,
I warm my fingers in your twinkling energy.
Please, when it’s bedtime, don’t moan, don’t scold,
Or be a solar wind across my Sea of Tranquility.
Goodnight, my little star.
How I wonder what you are.