The Poet's Voice

I do not remember the words
"Mother", "a rose" or "roses",
perhaps or maybe not.

Nor is the reason clear
Accompanying a friend,
if I recall correctly.

Not even the name
would have rung a bell,
if even I knew it in the first place.

But the voice remains,
presenting each syllable
in infinitely expensive silk.

A Heavy Blue, cerulean;
the voice of water and waves,
smooth and unbreaking.

Imagine my surprise
after all this time and on a whim,
to hear that voice again.