THE GIRL WITH NO MOUTH SINGS

The girl with no mouth sings

in a church of daisy weaves.

To clouds rushing against wind—

she hums beneath them, unseen.

Mountains are so tall

weather cannot climb.

Topping stones have never touched

or felt the friction of sand in breeze.

Insect violins are conducted

by shadow-patterns,

of oak and rock—

angled by rotating sun.

Pushing currents of river,

and tide of sea into spirals.

She listens,

and her silence moves with them.

The girl with no mouth hears—

nothing without ears.

She lives contently ignorant

of ancestors’ spoken rhythms,

and music made by sound.

She speaks with in movies—

and the music sung

with her hands.

A gesture,

a pause,

is a verse.

A look,

a tilt,

becomes a chorus.

The girl with no mouth sings

without voice,

without a need

for vibration.

She sings

in currents,

in shadows,

in spirals,

in spirals,

in spirals.

And if you listen—not with ears,

but with breath—

you might still

hear her.