Fully grown, she lies in fetal position in the field,
not facing down, in retreat,
but on her back, looking up.
A lotus petal below her head
and two under her folded hips
cradle her whole self
in the open hips of her original mother.
A petal to her right and one to her left
curl her in comfort.
Encircled by the black trees of the edge of the field,
she searches for names of constellations
in a well-studied sky,
knowing little, loving much.
Knowing little, loving much.
Having lost so many mothers, fathers, and lovers over eons,
why would she want to be born again
but for this moment
with its shooting star
never to be named?
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