once, after church, i reached into my desk,
scrambled through papers,
and found a sticker for my daughter,
a crimson five-pointed star.
i don’t remember the reason:
had she been silent and still during hymns and prayers,
or was it a just-because?

on her way out, she dashed into the room across the hall
to see the long rope
hanging through a hole in the ceiling
which her father pulled, and somewhere,
too far away for her to fathom,
a bell clanged.
and in this glad reverberation
the sticker shook free from her hand,
fluttered to the floor,
and remained there, its five points curled upward,
light and lonely as the first autumn leaf.

day after day, oblivious feet walk over it,
so that it now lays prostrate on the ebony tile;
week after week, groups gather around it and pray:
little star, who made thee?
month after month, a hurried mop rushes across it,
until it is stuck fast—forever,
i imagine,
praying without ceasing,
world without end,
my fiery polaris.