that being said

I speak into the walls, the dirt, the wind
that rises off the prairie, small noises
distorted by the earth’s arc. What reaches you
bears no likeness to the benevolence

I cradle like a fallen star. Never are my words
the alar emissaries they might be.
Instead they take the air as taloned things,
look to light upon the softest place.

Silence suits me best. In its white dome
my voice is snowfall on the water.
And you are there, cupped hands lifted,
the taste of sweetness on your lips.