The Woman Who Speaks to the Moon

She stands where silence meets the sky,
draped in the breath of midnight hues.
The water holds her secret shape,
a mirror of what once was true.
Her shawl—woven with the hands of time—
glows faintly like a prayer reborn.
Each thread remembers songs of earth,
each bead, the echo of the dawn.
The moon leans close to hear her heart,
Its silver tears fall on the lake.
Between her and the trembling stars,
the old ones stir, the spirits wake.
She does not speak in mortal tongue,
yet mountains listen when she dreams.
For she is keeper of the still,
and through her, night remembers gleam.
In her shadow, the world grows quiet—
The forest bows, the rivers sigh.
For she is not just a woman standing,
but memory walking through the sky.

Poem and Painting by Elvis Becker