Can the tale of sound be told?
Seen and felt instead of heard?
If it’s possible to do,
I offer you these words.

Fingers of breeze caress the trees, which move with sultry sway.
Quiet, sweet as honey, as dusk overtakes the day.
The blandness of night seasoned
By salty cricket’s rill,
The icy screech of waking owl, hastening evening’s chill.

Rainbow cacophony-chirping birds at dawn.
Sharp crimson of the cardinal’s whistling, wake-up song,
The electric blue of the jays first cry,
The dove’s muted, gray and mourning sigh.

Ripples of a child’s laughter, sea lapping sandy shore.
A penny’s lonely echo, meeting well’s empty floor.

If mixing all the senses could create a wish come true,
These words of sight would be reborn, visions of sound for you.

for my friend, Sara

• The fairest flower in all the garden
• Is s/he who patiently waits
• Along the path with gloves in hand
• Until you approach the gate;

• Who kneels with you and at your side
• Will diligently help you weed
• And rake and water and prune and hoe—
• Whatever is your need.

• Who will share with you the beauty
• When the day is at its end.
• The fairest flower in all the garden
• Is s/he who is your friend.