Like memory of womb, the sound
of her voice reaching farther back
than pain which light causes.
The only other comforting audibles:
water moving, streaming, the nearly
imperceptible hummingbird wing
caught below a fushcia's stamen.
Once aware of silence, how it opens
out like folds of paper, the way
its shapeless mist and starless
constellations resemble what we
know of loneliness, we are changed.