Dust is that from which stars are made.
A paradigm of childbirth. Blood
Swirling in a hot centrifuge
Like a vortex of fabric, played
Delicately atop the palm of a
Darling wife, motherly creature,
Denied her union. Bled of that hot
Milk, strained like a force, though never

Pulled beyond, she sits atop her
Stool, draped in the clothier's mantle,
With the hands of a craftswoman. Her eyes
Bedazzle us, distant and purposeful.
Woven from dust, these gentle threads
Are tangled and wrapped unto themselves, formed
Into the fabric of a memory
And bled out in a lattice of starlight.

Dust is that from which stars are made.
The dust of a memory, ground
Under the craftswoman's pestle. Our lights
Are distinct, cut like a crystal
And hewn into the sterling weave
Of jewels, held out like a shroud
And left to dry, as that faint light
Dreams of swirling dust.

Ever-sung stories. Melodies, music
Becomes a lattice on which our
Light is recalled. A whispered melody
Turned lyric. Into the stars our
Memories echo, ringing through
Fields of starlight. Our resonance,
Committed to its odyssey, is sent off
With a kiss on its forehead.

Wisps adrift in the void count off,
One-by-one, and softly surrender.
The message of our memory,
Held upon a star, is lastly forgot
As the shroud dissipates and forms
A veil, adored and tragic and torn out
Across the sky. Gently woven anew,
Our memories refreshed like a drop of water.