A number.
A rumor.
A shining thing.
It reflects time back and is not gold.
It holds its children in silver ties.
Collects white pearls on rainy days.
It covers itself in the dark of the sky.
Illuminates paths for night walkers.
O mother, your many forms lighten my chest.
I wonder,
always wonder, how it is in your nest.
Twigs are silver.
The sleep is mild.
Cushions bathed in feathers.
Drizzled lights abide.