seven freckles
stretched across the expanse
of a mystery
when the wind would pick up
she would dance with her shadow
and her twirling reminded the moon of its celestial duties
she held the milky ways in her lungs
and the stars in her eyes
and every day as the sun bid farewell
long, dark, outstretched arms awaited her
a receding tide of centuries of patience
of forgetting
of rewriting
she asked herself often
if she was born for this world
or if it was born for her
as leaves simpered at the brief graze of her skin
and nebulas spilled from her fingertips