Member Rara Avis
Lithe, like a knife
she cuts through the mist,
settling her bones
beside a ring of fire;
lit by a lover from lives past.
He takes her hand,
mingled of ivory and alabaster,
and places it upon his own.
Dry as the desert sand,
worn as the Sun itself.
Gravity has not greeted her,
for time does not touch you
where the Mother herself
And she smiles her contagious grin,
illuminating the blackened sky.
I have always wondered how the stars evolved
and folds her hands upon damask,
tilting her chin to the sky
staring, wide-eyed at her creation.