The setting sun, a spinning wheel,
Draws threads of sunlight from the room.
Gold strings stretch out across the sky--
The world becomes a waiting loom.
Dark wool is piled in mountain heaps,
And sprinkled with a million stars.
The fine-spun strands drawn from the moon
Will lace the cloth in sparkling bars.
The glittering laughter, dancing feet,
These are the lovely threads we weave.
The night becomes a gleaming cloak,
A veil whose wearers never grieve.
And when a thousand nights have passed.
And life takes on a softer charm,
We still will have this shining cloak,
To give us light, and keep us warm.
--Stephany Platzer, 1962 Class Poet
