Drying Their Wings

What the Carpenter said to the Child

The moon's a cottage with a door -
Some folk can see it plain.
Look! You may catch a glint of light
A-sparkle through the pane,
Showing the place is brighter still
Within, though bright without.
There at a cosy open fire
Strange babes are grouped about:
The children of the Wind and Tide,
The urchins of the sky,
Drying their wings from storms and things
So they again can fly.