When she wakes

Her tousled hair
           when she wakes
the fine threads
           that bear her age
the intersection
           of her beauty
with the world
           the accumulated
events of her breath
           and all that it takes
to make a life
           a probe advanced
into history in the making
           knowingly becoming
who she wishes to be
           the flesh of her
with its starwarmth
           like all things
fabricated from
           universe

So I ask myself
           what is there
not to hold dear
           and to love ?

John Lyons

Revised