battered wooden spoon in cup
clockwise she stirs and stirs and stirs
muttering words as pale liquid sloshes
she uncaps jars of stiff honey
lining them against the flowers
the bees and butterflies, they come close
as she gets up she lets her apron drop away
a sharpened stick in her grip
is she welcoming them? is she shooing them?
it is not known to others why or what
she proceeds to scrawl in the earth
symbols spindly like spiders’ legs
then she snaps the twig so abruptly
scattering the pieces around
it is a daily occurrence
she does not seek conflict
nor does she seek peace
there are things she sees that others don’t
the things she wards her home from -
they are not to be discussed out loud.