The Man Who Hangs Up The Stars Chloe Blanchard
There is a quiet old man I know Shy of being borderline short but stout With a whisper of greying hair Chasing down past his nose Who takes the time each day To hang up high in the country sky The expanding galaxies and firesome nebulas The burning suns and crashing moons Every night to no avail
My parents don’t believe me When I say that such a person Let alone a simple old widowed man Who takes the time to water His kangaroo paws every morning at nine Would have the sheer capacity To do something as magical As constructing a string of constellations Every night to no avail
But there he stands a little bolder At the edge of beautiful twilights Stringing up the freckled faced sky A masterpiece beyond words Across the endless blackness To show us a symphony of play And inspire our dreams To work a little harder Every night to no avail
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