Crossing the Sun’s Path
When she was a girl her mother told her
that ears were planted in the bushes, hidden
in the trees where they waited to hear truth,
and that sound you hear, the trickling from
cooling fountains was water laughing at every
lie they heard. She’d walk through parks,
through gardens, and never uttered a word.
She’d race through the greenery to reach
the sunbaked streets, cars racing past
drew sand in her mouth should she speak.
And in her silence she soaked in the scents
– rich camphor that stung at her nose,
cinnamon that flooded across her tongue,
and flat bread warm as desert sand.
She blessed those days when evening rain
put the street’s echoes to sleep – such joy
to wake in the morning, golden reflections
in the puddles and windows and mirrors.
She liked to think she was a little star
crossing the path of the sun — where
only truth was spoken and heard.
Written for Visual Verse
Vol 7 – chapter 4 (February 2020)
Poem ©️ Misky 2020.
Image by Omid Armin
for full-size image