These trees have whispered me
their secrets: the way a star cries
as it falls, how to coax a snail out
of her corkscrew shell. The perfect
jigga-jigga motion to simmer a
baby to sleep. I keep these things
under my hat for the rarity of rain.
The sky has spilled me
her songs: moon’s darkest stories,
the still small voice of grace. I’ve
placed my hands on either side
of her indigo face and listened well.
The world has taken
more than it has given me, shivered
and severed and stilted much. I’ve
touched base with silence, and
released my voice from her empty
shell. But I still know how to fill my
self with lake, salt, sea. The logarithm
of your smile. And the wisdom of trees.
Prompted by Quickly in November, day 16.