With a full moon strapped to her back,

she stakes down a flapping corner 

of sky, slip-knotting home to a low horizon.

She gathers tinder from the duff,

ignites it with the sharp note

of a nocturnal hymn.

Her skirt is singed;

she stands too close to the fire,

but she rises, wingless,

like an ember.

She leans back against the darkness,

wrapping her shoulders

with thick folds of midnight.

Dreams herself as wild terrain —

that hill is her hip,

the sky her mind,

a falling star, the moon she miscarried,

seven years ago.

Follow the blush of first light to find her

lacing up restless bones,

reinventing a choreography

with the wind

and her best intentions,

shimmering just out of reach.

Constance Mears