I plot my course by three stars:
With the energy of a frozen heaven.
Her hair, a weave of dust
Between my outstretched sextant fingers.
She slyly winks with a dark humour.
Edison is the sun.
His warmth creates worlds.
He bathes those who surround him
And the wisdom of the gods.
Alexandra is the smallest,
but she sings an old song.
She may be hidden by her siblings' shine.
Yet, everyone hears her whisper.
She speaks softly to Cassiopeia.
She lightly strokes Lyra.
We all dance to her pulse.
All three form the constellation, Potential.
I look to the heavens and I see a future unrealised.
I see a distant possibility.
I want to pluck them from the heavens.
I want to cradle them in my arms.
In each one, I see an aspect of the universe -
The mother who birthed them.