To describe your entrance, we sometimes
say that you were an astronomical midpoint.
The sun’s rays spin like square dancers
around your tiny head. Your hair is the
thinnest kind of filament. Even when we
close our eyes, the heat of your presence
reaches our lids, lights them up like the Fourth
of July. For so many years, we asked for someone
to follow. We never imagined it would be you,
those hands as tiny as plums, like stars so far away.
You floated into our lives on the cloud we call Mary,
holding up her skirts as if they were the oceans
themselves. You are gold against the blue,
a galaxy born from one single explosion.