The Star

The sky has finally emptied its pockets of thunder.
She kneels where the mud meets the mirror,
naked as a new thought,
unafraid of the dark because she is the wick.

One foot tests the ripple, the other grips the silt.
She holds the two terracotta jars like heavy secrets,
pouring one into the stream—a gift to the moving—
and one onto the grass—a drink for the still.

Above, the Great Star burns with eight sharp teeth,
biting through the velvet of the night.
The ibis waits in the papyrus, a silent witness
to the way the water returns to the earth
and the way the light returns to the eyes.

It is not a loud hope.
It is the quiet silver of a wound finally closing.