She believes too much
In her own intuition and the ambiguity
Of a convincing dream
Remembering how her hand felt
On the splintery rudder of the tiller
Turning over the night sky, dividing it
Into parcels of starless black soil
She would clear a space
To divine futures from the pitch blank
Of uncertainty; planting fragile seeds of hope
Into furrowed fields yawning with pretense.
Isn’t all life
Thus so, as to be an undiscovered
Meadow fertile among the stars,
Dense with potential to be harvested amid
The stark brilliance of mornings that challenge
Reason’s capacity to distinguish life
From what had grown and what had not?
Though she knows too much
Romanticism may ransack the common
Sense residing within the least of her wits
She will resist plucking stars from the brooding night
For a few more moments of fruitless sleep.