How to Hold a Falling Star

The lesson starts when you mistake a spark for a star,

When gravity teaches your open palms to be hands,

when streetlamps dim just enough to remember the night,

and you stand like a lighthouse inside your own window,

with patience sewn into the lining of your pocket,

listening for the small, bright animal called hush.

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Don’t clap at wonder—close your mouth around hush;

Let awe arrive before you rename it star.

If it chooses you, offer the bowl of your pocket,

not a net or a jar, but the basin of hands.

You’ll feel it tremble like a rumor of window

warming the frost at the hem of the night.

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Remember: "falling" is a verb the sky calls night.

The safest landing for light is a practiced hush.

The glass between you and the world is a window,

But courage opens inward when you carry a star.

Learn the quiet muscle-memory of hands,

and line each seam with mercy in your pocket.

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I’ve lost a dozen wishes to an unstitched pocket,

Let them sift through the seams and dark of the night.

Still, I keep trying to become a gentler pair of hands,

to cradle a brightness without breaking the hush.

Because the lesson isn’t owning a captured star—

It’s learning to stand open beside your window.

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So lift the latch; let a breath unblur the window.

If it’s too much weight for a fabric pocket,

let go on purpose, and watch it choose its star

again, then follow its script across the night.

You’ll hear your name inside the returning hush,

and know you held it rightly—with borrowed hands.

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In time, you’ll find that every scar on your hands

was ink that signed a treaty with your window:

to live with wonder at a volume called hush,

to carry a small fire in a faithful pocket,

to let what loves the dark keep loving the night,

and never claim the title deed to a star.

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Envoy

If a star chooses your hands, meet it with hush;

open the window, keep a mended pocket—

and let the night stay holy where it is.