Image by Fprunkov [CC BY-SA 4.0], from Wikimedia Commons

There once was a madman (but isn’t there always?),
a madman who had fallen in love with a star,
a star beautiful and bright and far away.
In longing, he stood on his toes and tried to kiss the star,
finding that he needed her to come closer.
He climbed a ladder he’d placed in an apple orchard,
and still the star remained distant and unattainable.
He stood on rooftops and shouted the star’s name,
but the star didn’t hear, or maybe she didn’t want to hear.
Whatever it was, the star seemed farther each night,
the madman growing weary of reaching up into the sky,
a sky swimming with other stars, other forms of beauty.
And though mad, the madman was not beyond reckoning.
He knew, as one eventually must, he would never be able
to touch the star, he would never hold the star in ceremony.
So he lay on the summer lawn and looked up and away.
He watched and he watched, every night, as his star went by.
Until, inevitably, it became winter and his star never rose.
And the man went to sleep in a field and dreamed of night,
a night full of stars that came and danced about his head.
Even with his eyes closed he could see them.