in great Andromeda’s arm,
little Donelda comes to herself
at the sound of trickling water.
In the stream’s iridescence,
circle-twirls in the undertow of an eddy.
On this day, the water is warm,
and her thin fingers feel no change
as she scoops up the doll.
Raggedy Ann has made it through.
Together, they’ll be just fine.