I might take the paper moon
and cut it from the sky.
I might steal each silver star
and sweep them from the night.
I might pluck the burning sun
and fold it like a page.
I might erase the painted clouds
and strip the sky of shade.
But all of them fit perfectly,
all set in quiet play.
Perhaps it’s best to let them be,
where they would rather stay.
I have no wish to steal
the moon from night, the sun from day.
I dream a gentler theft than that
to win your heart away.
