Go and catch a falling star.
Send it on the evening breeze
lightly salted by the ocean's sneeze.
Watch it whoosh over the land
like at a yellow light a minivan.
I find myself in this story--
Who has written it for me?
A long blade of grass sticking
up above the others, licking
my bare hand as I pass.
But what about the other grass?
There's a whole field to be sure.
I think laying in it is the only cure.
When the sun doesn't shine
doesn't mean its not mine.
I walk up to the marble desk
I'm sure a little prodigal son-esque.
It's mine, thank you, I'd like it
now (you needn't mind the pocket).
I'd like to call it my rising star.
But I'm pretty sure that's rather far
from the truth of the matter,
said Door-mouse to the Hatter.
A rocket-ship, it might be,
or a firework launched at sea.
But I think I know the hitch,
though no one ever minds the glitch:
no one can catch a falling star.