Anna@YWP

The stars were out that night

But it was the Moon who truly conquered the darkness.

She reached out a pale hand and wove together the soft strings of a lullaby

Pulling some deeper into the promise of sleep

The string of memories burns my hand,

My 12-year-old self can barely understand.

The balloon is purple, her favorite color,

She is my great-grandmother.

The air in the balloon is filled with every memory I remember,

two boys sit on the slanted rooftop of 
a suburban house on the Amish hillside, 
ignoring the jargoning mosquitos 
buzzing around their heads and spectating the