“Dreamy diminutive bloom that the forgotten ones called Star-wort,
which had the power to divine whether love was present or lost, and
drive away the poison-bearers. Beneath the small petals, as fine
and meticulous as calligraphy, this one knows how to find the inner
compass that always points the way through whatever is at hand—
for some of us, to seek the high ground of love and light, and for
others, to ground down, to seek that sweet strong earthliness
tickling our lips and whispering to our bodies, you, yes you,
always you, always home. You are made of stardust.”