Rumi Borrows the Moon’s Wink — Every evening, Rumi polished the ribbon sky with a comet-feather brush, flicking dust from the little stars until they went ping, ping, ping. Read the full story →
Every evening, Rumi polished the ribbon sky with a comet-feather brush, flicking dust from the little stars until they went ping, ping, ping. He wanted the grand eight-point signal to sparkle before the Sun and Moon passed each other, because if it winked on time, the night orchestra could begin.
Until one evening, a moon-moth sneezed from inside a cloud curl and stuck silver fuzz all over the Moon’s lashes. “Don’t tell her,” squeaked the moth. Because of that, the Moon could not wink. Because of that, the Sun kept smiling politely while the crickets tuned the same note again and again, cree-ee, cree-ee, making everyone’s ears feel fizzy.
Rumi could have called the sky inspectors, who carried very serious clipboards and no snacks. Instead, he rubbed his own shine onto the Moon’s eyelid, one warm spark at a time, then tucked the moth behind a dangling bead charm. The Moon winked; the orchestra burst into music; nobody saw Rumi looking a little dimmer except the moth, who whispered, “You’re shiny in secret.” Next time you spot the bright star above the Sun and Moon, see if it still looks like it just went ping.
