Each One Their Own Voice
All things have their own voice,
the quilt that covers the rumpled sheet
lisps a voice as telling as the grass,
and grass is no more common
than the leaves that grow in my mouth,
taking over the heart,
the mind that was looking somewhere else,
leaves that rise, each one,
to flower, fade and fall,
cremated into words
that tell the common noise of grass,
the lonely whisper of the quilt
torn half folded from the sheets.