Great Aunt Anna claimed everyone has a star.
At first you don’t know which is yours. It knows
without doubt who you are. You must go out
often, near and far. In the extremes
and sweet air seek what’s lost. Find your place
in the milky way. Shine on flanks
of Flint Hills cougar into the big blue stems
head of seeds, down the stock, sixteen feet through limestone
cracks where scientists say sixty per cent of life
lives—throughout the hard stuff and fine root hairs.
Advertisements
Written by Individual Poet
Leave a comment