META-CONSTELLATION
The Word Works Graces
have tipped the bowl
of the night sky free
of humidity, light pollution --
to expotential stars,
skim of Milky Way creamed.
The Lyra held upright to strum
sound bright to twin the lights --
too various to connect all dots --
intimate as a lost love,
extraterrestial as the setting,
neither desert or the whale
neglected. The poets drew
the pictures -- and the pictures
sang. We sat under
the constellations, grateful
for the created
community of words.
--Rhonda Williford
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