The way the sky cracks open to the beat
of her most unmetered feet. The way her
heart tunes itself to a new moon with each
dawn. The birdsong that builds her heart
a home, fills her throat with the thrum of
grace, the space to breathe. The wilder
-ness of whim and wishing, the swishing
of stars on her tongue and the brave way
they shimmer and simmer there, stung.
The holiest of days, this. Ordinary. Flung.
Written for Poetic Asides.