Quiet Song

Your lips say nothing

for their purpose, the same

with your gentle eyes, closed windows

I can't open what is already sealed shut.

I know this is life for you. Moving

between moments carefully,

your steps like your joy measured

laughing only when the colors are bold

enough. Are you happy, I wonder

is it always this quiet where you live?

You sing

sometimes when cooking, your voice

like the water rolling to a gentle boil,

both familiar and strange, a primal song

I remember but can't place.

I only know it in my blood, the way

the music of your touch

understands always all of me.

You are, like the rest of us,

someone doing the best they can,

only more silent, a quiet person

in a world of endless crescendo.

None of this belongs to us. Words

are not your voice.

But your hands, love,

Oh, how they sing.