her chants
are for the morning star,
a spray of dreams
hanging on a crescent moon
she cards her words,
spins visions,
and sews them to her like stars
in a peculiar passion
oceans lie within,
coalesced with the sky—
bright threads of abandonment
fire and filament
dance upon
the waters, embroidering
their depths
Alethea Eason, Clearlake Oaks
|