She speaks
without opening her mouth.
Lives
between intuition
and silence.
She has never needed
to prove
what she already feels.
The moon
is stitched
into the hem
of her robe.
Owls
carry her secrets.
She laughs
at clocks
because wisdom
has never cared
what time it is.
I keep pulling
her card.
Perhaps because
she knows
I’m still learning
to trust
the voice
that sounds
most like my own.
Leave a Reply