There’s a star up there next to the
one on the left. Each night, when clouds
find favor to be somewhere else,
I witness the diamond chip, flashing its
carats into my curiosity.
Brighter than backyard lights, higher than
my sisters hair, it lounges as if glued
just beyond my reach.
The perfect friend, always there, holding
to the backcourt when foul weather prevails,
returning on clear night skies where it affirms
its place.
Roger Singer 