She Who Gathers

Her fingers glisten like diamonds, plucking
berries from snarls of thorn and branch,
nestling each in the bowl of apron
that she may bear their sweetness home.

Her starlit body draws the wanderers,
scattered by chaotic night,
establishing each in their own orbit
around that flame whose name is hers.

Her lap enthrones the infant god, falcon
made real from possibility,
the bowl formed by her arms nurtures him whole,
her song foretells battles to come.