Honey for the Wounds
I pour honey over these wounds slowly,
sitting beneath this ancient, knowing tree.
The bark whispers secrets softly to me,
old stories of longing, lost and holy.
The moon becomes a friend, bright and aglow,
speaking in a language I nearly grasp.
It listens to my words, my every gasp,
while knowledge stretches long in its silver show.
Honey drips down my fingers, golden, thick,
like the moon’s light pooling...
sitting beneath this ancient, knowing tree.
The bark whispers secrets softly to me,
old stories of longing, lost and holy.
The moon becomes a friend, bright and aglow,
speaking in a language I nearly grasp.
It listens to my words, my every gasp,
while knowledge stretches long in its silver show.
Honey drips down my fingers, golden, thick,
like the moon’s light pooling...