Stars

My hands have cradled ash and bone and scattered both asunder

These hands that break and mold and mend make images of wonder.

My head is death, my hands are life, and both bring to my heart

The pain it feels and awe it seeks in chaotic, beauteous art.

These fingers pry and dig and scrape away at all I see

I saw no light, though I was blind, I saw what was in me.

A beast of eyes and teeth and hands that grasp and pull and rend

A search in vain for aid, it seemed, for pain without an end.

Soft skin so torn as ashes were and shattered was the bone

My spirit burned to nothing, oh, and there I was alone.

And soft as ash you came to me, and soothed those bleeding scars

My hands of life and eyes of death, in those you placed the stars.

They burned so bright and deeply that my life would come to me

For I was yours and you were mine, and as it was to be

I called for you, your eyes of ash and spirit firm as bone

In every call I made to you, there was a call for home.