In the green heart of the forest, Joysmith lives with her daughters.
In spring, the daughters trudge over plains and carry water back from the sea. 
In summer, they clamber up mountains and snare fire from the sun. 
In fall, they lower themselves into caves and dig iron from the earth. 
In winter, they cross glaciers and spin silver from the moon.  
Today, in the green heart of the forest, Joysmith is at work.  

The sea water swirls in the basin.  It is for cooling. 
The sun fire glows in the forge.  It is for heating. 
The earth iron forms the anvil.  It is for beating. 
The moon silver swishes through the air.  It is for knowing the way home.
Today Joysmith is at work — hard, magical work and only Joysmith knows the secret.  

From the sun fire, she takes a ray of light and lays it on the anvil.  The black iron glows red at the edges.  The sunlight lifts and curls.  

She works, black and damp with the heat and billows and blasts of fire and iron and water.  The fire twists and buckles.  Joysmith croons a song and kneads it toward newness.  Moonlight sparkles on her cheeks and curled lashes.

Others have forged irons of war — swords, knives, daggers, guns, cannons, bombs. Joysmith labors over the birth of light.

The fire crackles and dances, burns and brightens.  Joysmith holds up the blossom of light, considering.  Her skin glows black, seasoned by fire and elements, smoked in joy and creation.

She takes green reeds from the river, and with a swish, beats them across the sunbeam.  Again and again. The beam curls like a stretching kitten, then gathers slowly like a drop of melting sugar.

Joysmith's arm swings back and forth, back and forth.  The sunbeam bursts apart. flows back together again, into a pulse of pure light.

Joysmith and her daughters carry the sphere out into the dark night.  Hand to hand, laughter to joy, the light passes among them.  Slowly the moon rises.  It is time.

Joysmith's arm swings back, muscles gleam and tense, and she throws the light sphere high, until it rises almost beyond sight.  Her daughters hold their breath.  Will it fall back to earth?  

No! Joysmith and her daughters shout and clap and dance.  The moon herself sings because Joysmith has given her another star child.