She sits on the crescent moon, smiling.
She stands on the illuminated clouds, dancing.
She touches the stars, arranging them.
Her dress, deep sky, flows and ripples around her knees.
Her hair, midnight, turns and twists behind her.
Her life, only filled of freedom and fun.
And she looks at us
So far down below her,
Simply living our lives.
She sheds a tear, with every other being living a seemingly meaningless night, and it rains.

I write a poem, as she sits, staring.
A painted piece of pottery, gathering dust and holding others stories and lives up on a bookshelf.