She is the daisy, all crude lines and crayon,
the first-grade boy drew for his mother.
She is a crumpled-up letter.
She is the reason why the teen-age boy throws the stone
at his father’s eye.
She lights the red fox’s fur crossing the meadow,
a silvery line ghosting bearded grasses.
She stalks lovers and murderers.
Her appearance and disappearance is a repeated chant,
ancient breath of some greater lung.
Stone-faced vamp, store-house
of whispered confessions.
Shrunk thin as a razor cut, or ballooned
big as a giant squid’s eye,
she returns every night to the sky out of spite,
because she loves
what she cannot escape.