You had it. You lost it,
slowly changing with the weather,
not adjusting well, evidently,
disappearing into a raspy drawl.
And so you stop.
Talking that is.
You stop, not wanting to inflict
your lack of voice, your confused vocal chords,
on anyone. Never mind
what you have to say, or think you have
to say, it won’t come out.
You keep trying of course,
in hopes that the rasp will suddenly heal
and you can emerge full-throated,
able to sing hymns and ballads
It does not work that way, of course.
You will struggle with it awhile,
testing your throat, stopping,
testing it again. No music for now.
Or now, Or the next now.
It will come. It aways does
as you adjust to the seasons,
and things even out. Your voice returns
and once again, you can sing.
About this poem.
I really am hoarse this morning. And last night. I even had to cancel bible study because I could not talk properly.
But it is also a poem about our inner voice, our creative voice, and how in the midst of change, it takes a while for us to find our new voice.
Poetry is never about one thing.