A Rosary of Sorts

I reach out, hold close
the blue jug of sky,
the drop of blooming star
dangling on meager string.

I pull them in, even
think of a face still young
in centuries of repose,
lost in a soft veil of hair.

She sleeps, not knowing,
in her dry, faint smile-
her hands- they are
the source of a million streams.

In the sweet seas of her eyes,
we float in her arms,
all of us as one-
birth before birth,
a womb of light for souls.