Gazing With Galileo Poem by Irene Mitchell

What is it
about the stars in their mooring
that is so seminal?

In this nude space now dressed
with stars that shame
every other starry night in history,
what is as fresh?

Under midnight cover
the moon spills an urn of polar light upon the water,
a Venice of nascent stars.

Ours is that telescopic view
of daughters
so mindful
of the fluid kick that connects us to the divine.

What is so provocative
about these unsheathed stars
that leave their shimmering imperative?