She keeps her one-eyed, one-buttoned doll under her bed,
Right next to the box of bouncy balls, jacks, and thimbles,
Still hoping that she will find her Peter Pan by her window,
So she stares at the seventh star every night before she
Puts her music box beneath her bed and then spins on
Her tipi-toes like the ballerina that keeps the necklace
From her grandmother with specks of emerald melted
Together by the silver lining that shimmers like the silk
Lacing of the bed sheets that she wraps herself in when
Her eyes get too tired to stare at Peter Pan's distant sun.
She wakes early to play the violin to the moon of His sleep,
Tucked away into the night of the Lost Boys' dreams,
Hoping one of them will Find a thread of a sliver conscious
Of her playing their children to sleep with her violin tucked
Into the crevice under her jaw where he so often rests
His head as he plays the pan flute to the dancing tune
Of a shadow that never cried at the mother he never had,
Nor to the wife that he hands thimbles to every pan flute-
Night and violin-morning until she has glued together each
Kiss with the honey of an endless imagination and countless
Whispered creations of fantastic physical illusions that fail
To allude to the understanding that whispers offer to the soul
In the form of thimbles glued together in the shape of the
Eiffel Tower, and then the Big Ben that multiplied their love
By four, with new faces that echoed their timeless harmonies
Of pan flute chords and blown kisses in the form of violin strums.
So she keeps thimbles under her bed, and thimbles under her pillow,
While he stares at the seventh star, wonder if she is staring back,
When she has just missed his eyes pondering what's beyond the sky
That separates his pan flute from her violin; if only they had pixie dust.