Listen

by Ida Cutler

What do I hear?
The sighing breeze,
The rattle and roar of needled branches
Whipping the gale.
Cool as lake water, far off, high and clear
The cry of the loon, that little lost soul.

The crackle of my fire, bird song,
High piping voices of children.
The baby babble of my sleepy grandchild
And the voice I loved.

But thye are all in my head, my memory,
With the love songs of the Scots - and music.

The sharp edges of a speech are gone too
Like rounded hills of once sharp mountains.
The tune I hear faintly, but it is
Voice music now, not words.

Deafness is like a wall around me,
Invisible, adamantine.
I say, "Pardon me?"
You shout then and people
Look at me.
"Is she lacking something?
She's pretty old." Senile?

Truly the deaf have cause for sorrow.