Lyra
Summer stars pulse close
enough for grubby hands to touch.
Messy blonde ponytail tilts back
as your eyes scan the blue-black
for your namesake, that tiny kite-tailed diamond
named, as you were, for the lyre of Orpheus.
Face round as a tortoise shell,
you pull the ropes of evening
to examine the sky, stars fireflies in your hand.
You ripple out
to twang the strings of the universe,
micro, macro, all at once,
all in the spark of your blue eye.
Galaxies fit between forefinger and thumb.
Strings run from star to star,
light from a thousand years ago
encompasses sound. You begin
to realize you place, ant-small,
nova-big, no explanation needed,
bare feet in the grass,
head spiraling through space.
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