Only the stories of old have stitched themselves onto the sky,
Their names pinned to the heavens for every wanderer to read,
To gaze up at that inky blackness and ask those who came before,
To tell the stories of those stretched across the stars.
She will be older and wiser, hands veined with the trials of age,
Yet her eyes will be bright to her companion’s gaze.
His eagerness will flood her mind with a memory of when she
Asked the same. She will smile.
She will spin the tale of mighty Heracles, tracing the lines of his body,
Spreadeagled among the stars, penitent in his physical prostration.
Orion will burn bright upon her words, placed in the heavens by
Regretful Gods. Their tears create the trails of flame across the blackness.
Her hands will measure out the stars, grains of sand between her fingers,
Hot to the touch as if warmed by the sun for the duration of a day.
The words of the tales will trip off her tongue into the
Enraptured ears of the younger of the wandering pair.
Cassiopeia watches with her overturned gaze, searching for her Andromeda.
Draco, the guardian of the North, stands ready for his God.
Pegasus rides forever throughout the swirling nights of old.
All have had their stories written into the fabric of the universe.
These are the legends and myths that have survived an age
A story printed upon the sky for all to see and hear
Each moment passed from mouth to eager ear as the stories