I discover on the ceiling
a galaxy from her childhood.
I try to make out the celestial system
of glow-in-the-dark stars,
to guess what she was thinking
when she created her own astronomy.
I thought I saw the constellations
of endangered birds and rainforest frogs
she loved when she was nine,
a flute-playing nymph dancing
near the orb of Chinese paper
that forms her sun.
Beyond that, I can't
discern the pictures in her sky.
Her most private planets
are only visible through
a telescope she took with her,
the lens of her own heart.
I have to be content
with this, and only this...
points of light reaching me now
from her distant past.
