when you murmur the name of the holy –
whomsoever you douse in that light –
do you feel the air still
or the waters calm?
grace and existential peonies gather at your feet
as the perpetual loop of stars shutting their eyes
and reawakening on the other side of the cosmos
attending to the needs of the royal and lush
you are favoured, star kin, and the moon dances on your brow
each pillowed step another in the right direction
each cherished petal a gold thread in your tapestry
zither in the hall, harp in the observatory
and you call down the heavens when tears fall
wishing you were in the embrace of your ancestors
hoping your mortality has brought them honor
praying your birthright has been given its justice.