I whisper, but first:
Nimble little feet, these,
Racing through the fields in silent murmurs,
Crushing the grass and soft buds underfoot
And in echoes of quiet unknown, overlooked ants mourn a world lost.
Nimble little hands, these,
Little wiry strains of music sing, stinging, till a bouquet of blossoms and stalks
Are contained by grubby fingers, roots trailing to the ground.
Nimble little fingers, these,
Back against scratchy oak and like spider legs they move, weaving a web of their own,
Head bent and concentrating, occasionally stopping to smell the flowers,
He loves me not.
Nimble little girl, me,
Crown of oak above my head, necklace of flower stalks roped around my neck,
I am queen of the sod, and flowers grow all around me.
I am queen of the air and for a moment am flying.
And as the world sits quiet, my lips move in soft whisper.