tell me if this is all true

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Listen

to the honeyed residue of beeswax,

not so much to the wren’s song,
but to the pulse of its ochre colored belly,

to the weeping at the forest entrance,

to the clatter of crowds and plagues.

The earth is not speechless.
The trees forgive and outlive terror.

The moon-soaked hills are raw and answer mildly.

There is a small girl who dances, laughs, and shakes
a spoon. The spoon is sighing for her future.

At night when her mother washes the girl’s quick feet,
she makes a softening of softness.

Later the mother braids thread, drops it to wax, lifts.
The sounds are small and lonely.
The wick is pure with secrets.