She walks with her face pointed towards the sky,
In the light of the moon – her features parallel with the night.
The twinkling stars mimic the freckles on her face.
Planets and constellations hanging above,
So indefinable from the dewy grass.
Why are they so relatable, yet so far away?
Suddenly the false hope of a shooting star,
Formed by only just a slight shift in her eyes,
Creating imagined movement in a stagnant sky.
such sweet things 