Sometimes we assume the stars
have all the horses: plowers
of want, whinniers of need.
Eye-graze those silver orbs
miniaturized by distance,
dazzling light across the cosmos.
How improbably shaped constellations
are with their fiery suns, backward-
revolving moons, pastures of possibility.
In the Gaia wind, prance awhile, weave
your spiral hair over your cave ancestors,
pretend that they--Denisovans, Neanderthals--
now scattered bone relics and mud DNA,
will remember, be remembered.
Doris Lynch has recent work in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Tipton Poetry Journal, and in the anthology Cowboys & Cocktails: Poetry from the True Grit Saloon. The Indiana Arts Commission awarded her three individual artist's grants, and she has worked as a librarian and an Ivy-Tech creative writing instructor.