It’s a kind of magic

I don’t recall a single supermoon
as a kid; they were all magical,
even without labels
or a rudimentary understanding
of cycles or space.

I remember being given a notebook
and told to write my thoughts
and that they could maybe rhyme, or not.
I was 7 and the world opened up.

I remember my dad with a ladder
late at night telling us to scramble
on the roof to watch a comet.
It was beautiful and I didn’t understand.

Somehow stars and words
are tied up in my mind
as magical yet reachable;
I can touch if I want or just look
and it doesn’t have to make sense.


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