By Micheline Maylor

The sky turns powder grey then royal blue,
frost yawns on the ground.
He's early this morning and making starship sounds.
His spiderman hood catches the dawn
and his hair rays out from beneath.
My night frump
my lovely.
His hands whirl the cloudlight,
make finger-guns and laser beams.
Commander of all, he demands of the heavens,
Be light, be light, be bright!

And they shine.