The bare floor of the landing,
midway to the top of the stairs.
began to bite her knees and she grew weary.
Her chin pressed the ledge of the frozen window
where her breath left a misty hole.
Her eyes followed the range of the stars,
afraid, afraid of missing the sainted friend
who would deliver her heart’s desires.
Her vigil continued and
the night grew weary of itself.
The house slept under the weight
of the wonderless slumbering within
and its old bones creaked with fatigue.
She did not move and
her eight years spoke her eight millennia.
The promise was not for now but of forever.
Erstwhile urchin, never blended the phases
of the child’s dreams, but the boiling
of the witch’s brew to drink
from the cauldron of life’s ironies.
It was the story written of the night
in which a million stars stole the night.
She long remembered the banishment
and in her vigil she would have
reclaimed the homestead.
It was not to be. But in its stead,
the morning fir stood and the lights
reflected the stars which distilled
their radiance in the eyes of the child.
Not for long was the long wait.
She claimed her right as a child of the night
and gift wrapped was her life.