THE ABSENCE OF SOUND

there is beauty
lost in the wind

passing through the
leaves of a birch
nonexistent.

eventually,
everything finds a home
in the absence of sound:

a field of crickets
as you walk by, the
settling of dew
frosting over, even the
light from a star
quiets down
finally catching
an eye from travel.

what was once there
is not, though
everyone is the wiser.

on a birch,
places that rattled
just a month ago
packed bags as tight as buds
waiting to be born again.

in the spring
they'll open the door
like on an old t.v. show
in black and white...

the cold takes off
its coat and hat
mentioning

"honey, i'm home"

we can always hear
what is missing,

but only after it's gone.