The way she moves in the spectacular heavens

The way she moves in the spectacular heavens
is a novel rhetoric, the muscles that pulse
in her arms and legs. I can hear the wars
of prior lands, the histories of mountains

and valleys, the sufferings of the stones
that are pulverized to sand. The way the clouds
desert this land, the turning orange layers
of rock, the thirsty plants. I am the soft

and wet ground after rain, the turning sod
of a fertile field. The way she moves is not
to be described, is a mystery that science

can't illumine. I'm wandering the symbols
of myth and legend, rearranging the epics
and trying to conceive something I can't.