If I Were a Poet

Silence is the thing with wings
that nests between our words.

In the womb it sang to me,
it sang my name
not yet formed in syllables on earthly tongues,
it sang my name
from dawn to dusk, in silent haunting songs.

Silence comes into this world with us,
leads the way,
hovers over us.
Its stamina is infinite,
its eloquence divine.
It improvises fluently
when we lose the script:
The unexpected diamond ring,
the midnight phone call
from the hospital,
the sunset that would be dimmed
by just the slightest dust of adjectives.

Now winter comes,
our words grow desperate and sparse;
between them: endless chasms
filled with wings that flap but make no sound.

Someday I will tell you
the most beautiful poem ever heard,
and it will have no words.