a woman alive

you are made of the same substance as a lioness,
i once heard someone say.
as if to be a flesh-and-bone-woman
were not miracle and mystery enough;
as though bearing the very image of God
were a marvel made mundane.
but all right, i and the lioness are sisters in frame;
we are both composed of carbon and calcium,
of skin and sinew, of joints and marrow.
but when she lifts her eyes to the heavens,
could she even begin to yearn to count the stars?
perhaps i share the dust of my existence with her,
but what a wonder it is, after all,
to be a woman, alive with two legs.