a moth tastes moonlight
fish can hear the sound of snow falling
air unravelling on water
each flake a whisper
a tiny disturbance in the deep
What is silence to us
is a drama to them
a world speaking in a thousand voices
somewhere, an owl drinks the shape of night
through the hollow of its ears,
a moth tastes moonlight on the silk of its tongue
roots of trees stretch unseen
listening to the pull of water underground
the earth is fluent in languages
we will never hear
the rhythm of light on a spider’s web
the curling of petals opening at dawn
the soft percussion of melting snow
calling to the fish below
a moth tastes moonlight
fish can hear the sound of snow falling
air unravelling on water
each flake a whisper
a tiny disturbance in the deep
What is silence to us
is a drama to them
a world speaking in a thousand voices
somewhere, an owl drinks the shape of night
through the hollow of its ears,
a moth tastes moonlight on the silk of its tongue
roots of trees stretch unseen
listening to the pull of water underground
the earth is fluent in languages
we will never hear
the rhythm of light on a spider’s web
the curling of petals opening at dawn
the soft percussion of melting snow
calling to the fish below