Washed in the Flame of a Small Galaxy

Jenny waits 3,000 moon-shaped miles away
In Berkeley as I streak to be with her
This daughter of mine
 who time has washed
In the flame of a small galaxy
 where only certain children
Are born, those who can feel
 the brightest clouds
 and lead the rest of us
To the edges of our worlds
Up the mountains of our lives
Instructing us to part the curtains
 demand light
And share it with those who have trouble
 stepping out of the shadows.

This is Jennifer, from that small galaxy
 who broke the code
 right from the beginning.