The Light Beneath Her Tongue

She does not speak spells—she breathes them.
In the hush between dusk and moonrise,
she kneels where the herbs remember,
where smoke curls like a lullaby
and the earth listens.
Every word unspoken hums beneath her tongue,
a truth passed down through dream,
through root,
through blood.
The stars blink in rhythm,
as if they, too, were once taught
by women who whispered to the dark
and made it bloom.