If I have grown from the mother sun
and the countless spangles that strew the sky,
who, what, will
they blow winter winds and rip the shadows
of her shining ship to shreds while you watch?
Black is beauty, you say, like the night
with its diamond rivers, but so is light,
rising from purple to pink and gold, smiling—
a mother’s face?
Rain whispers, this too is spring,
and behind the clouds we are still together,
you, me and the mother of us all.
Moon draws a red blood-loop of sun flares
about the stars, waxes with withheld breath
and bathes us in cool silver so we sleep
you, she, me,
through the storm of night, light and shooting stars.
Still, with sleeping ears,
you, I, we
listen to her music soar high as roses
reaching to the sky
and water falling like tears of joy.