With hair of startling Raven black,
She stood upon the window sill.
Ten inches tall was all her size,
For age of child she needed still.
Jade eyes, the pits of curiosity,
And ears pricked firm for words
Spoken by the silver imps,
Who form the shapes of birds.
Those sticky fingers placed upon,
A pane as cold as ice.
They yearned to go into the night;
To touch a vision seen thrice.
That golden flash of light across
A once jet-bare sky;
To take a leap and to be one;
To take one step, then fly.
A mind so sharp with intuition,
(A girl grown up alone),
The wonder of the universe:
A total ‘play-thing’. Her throne.
Late at night, a young girl stands
Against her window pane.
She sees a falling star cross the sky,
And things will never be the same.