For Sister Sun is diminished, disappeared,
Gone and fled the scene.
Father Moon, no match either, slips right behind her,
And tugs the river out to sea.
In the glim, beckons the pale saint of Amherst
Come sideways, Georgie, she murmurs,
you know this is not your fight.

But, marble eyes glow iris and glass and fizz,
While starfish nurse frail and damaged limbs
And minister to feet bound in herring muck,
So from delicate wrists, sweetgrass could grow.
Tethered thus, Georgie lets go and casts the grass
Into braids and whips and ropes,
And true purpose —

To give soft land to each stardust mote as they trail the earth
And to harness their light.