Birds Still Sing

This is a poem about the aging process, of course.

I'm not quite dependent on a hearing aid ... yet. Still, there are times when I might find one helpful ... to fine tune what I'm trying to hear ... or to tune out something I'd rather not hear.

But it's also a poem about memory ... and imagination, the ability to recall things, sometimes with a new attention to detail. I like it when a poem works at two levels ... or sometimes in two directions.

Originally published in Capper's, it's a little poem, saying much, I hope, with few words (the photograph, as usual, is one of my own):

BIRDS STILL SING

I don't always

hear the doorbell,

thunder's mostly

just a rumble now,

but in the foliage

of my mind

birds still sing

loud and clear.

© 1996

***

Today's word: recall

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you so much, Indigo, for that comment. What a gift hearing is ... and what a gift it is to "hear" certain sounds which are stored forever in memory. I am glad, too, for those things I have heard, and I will treasure the memory of them as my own hearing fades. I am glad you still sense the music in words ... and impart your own music by means of them. Best wishes.