What I Told Him

I once asked him
what his favorite sound was.
He asked, in return,
what I meant.

I mean, I said,
the sound of a lone cricket
singing his song
before the others wake

I mean, I said,
the sound of an orchestra
while they are warming up,
the comforting jumble of sound.

I mean, I said,
the sound of birds
calling to one another
in the early hours of the day.

I mean, I said,
the sound of rain
hitting leaves of trees
and sliding to the ground

I mean, I said,
the sound of pens
scratching on paper,
hands smeared with ink.

I mean, I said,
the sound of feet
tapping on floor,
the clicking of heels.

I mean, I said,
the second of pure silence
after something amazing
before the deafening roar.

I mean, I said,
the sound of the ocean,
waves crashing on sand,
again and again.

I mean, I said,
the sound of life
when it's snowing,
muffled and diluted.

So, I said, what's your favorite sound?
He thought for a moment,
perhaps gathering the courage to say,
The sound of your voice.