Cover the sky with your hands.
The summit of your palm is the moon.
Your fingers are feathered rays of sun
glinting off the apex of ancient hills
through golden branches of forked trees.
Glide them across my landscape,
over valleys, hills, softness and sediment.
I am every woman that you have loved,
your dynamic wings beat in my voice.
Recall my eyes as history,
you have lived here a thousand years.