by Stephen Leake
Away from the house, the star is reluctant.
Pushed from its window of sky.
It stalls at the morning’s shelf, letting
Fabled light open history. Again.
Tardily, it drops its gifts.
-Modest opulence brimming with season-
Its warmth, a glass spirit held in the hand.
And, as the day is made special with prayer
It will fall. Fall back to its dream. There
It will sing. Unwrapping the day
With its presence.