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 that
drew sand in her mouth should she speak.
And in her silence she soaked in the scents
of life – 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.