Go and catch a falling star.

Send it on the evening breeze,

lightly salted by the ocean's sneeze. 

Watch it whoosh over the land,

like at a yellow light, a minivan.

I find myself in this story--

Who has written it for me?

A long blade of grass sticking 

up above the others, licking

my bare hand as I pass.

But what of the other grass?

There's a whole field to be sure.

I think laying in it is the only cure.

When the sun doesn't shine

doesn't mean it's not still mine.

I walk up to the marble desk

I'm sure a little prodigal son-esque.

It's mine, thank you, I'd like it

now (you needn't mind the pocket).

I'd like to call it my rising star.

But I'm pretty sure that's rather far

from the truth of the matter,

said Door-mouse to the Hatter.

A rocket-ship, it might be,

or a firework launched at sea.

But I think I know the hitch,

though no one ever minds the glitch:

no one can catch a falling star.