It would be okay,
I believe,
If you were to make a wish
and put it in your pocket.
It would be okay,
especially so,
if the wish was sweet.
For a wish made carefully
is often much sweeter
if forgotten
(in a pocket)
and found
somewhere along the drifting line
of life.
Somewhere lovely,
of course.
Somewhere really quite lovely,
I would think.
The little boy followed the balloon through the Summer streets.
He knew nothing of the balloon except that it was red and tied with a glistening blue string: and that he must follow it, wherever the wind might float it.
And although the boy didn’t understand how he knew, still he knew the balloon was leading him home.
And so he followed.
And so the balloon lead him to the Lolly Shop on Hope Street.
‘Look, Sun! The humans are telling stories again,’ said Moon as she picked through the glimmering blue ripples at her feet, sorting each loose shard into piles of keep or discard.
‘Oh goody! You know how I love storytime,’ said Sun, as he slid off the swing and left it to dangle between the car cloud and the witch cloud.
‘Oh, Sun,’ Moon’s heart fell as her eyes drifted back to the group of humans gathered below. ‘Today, the humans are talking about our beautiful friend, Raven. But instead of seeing his beauty like we do, they are frightened of him. They’ve put him in a little box called ‘Black magic and death.’
‘Well, why would they do a ridiculous thing like that, Moon? Raven is no different than Cat, or Dog, or Fish. The humans have put them in the safe, family, home box.’
Moon smiled gently into Sun’s eyes.
‘Sun, humans tell stories for all sorts of reasons. And often the stories they tell hide the truth of what actually exists in front of them. When we look at Raven, all we see is a beautiful bird, because we’ve never put Raven in the box of black magic and death. The humans can’t help but see him differently, because that’s the box they were told he belongs in. ‘
Sun gazed at the woman that gently glimmered before him. How he loved her for the new eyes she had given him, and even though he didn’t know how he knew, every storytime brought them closer to seeing the truth of their own shared story box.
As Moon sat upon her hill, waiting for the tide to rise, she whispered to Sun, “Sun? What is love?”
Moon wasn’t expecting an answer. She only wanted to ask the question, because if she asked, the possibility of receiving an answer that thrilled her could exist— a question never asked, is, after all, a question never answered.
And as Moon sat upon her hill, trying to understand the question for herself, Sun’s words fell upon her like the sweetest touch of spring.
“Love is whatever it is. And that, dear Moon, is the only answer I know to give you.”
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