SOUND

Faint sounds beyond the window,

outgoing tide,

passing voices.

The moon retreats.

My son, shirt rustling,

turns over in his dream.

You wake, fist on the crib rail,

see me on the couch.

You hum a toneless song

like a duckling

swims across the room

and back. My ears

catch something from my past,

slim recognition, monosyllables

not yet words.

I write them down

in rhythms, line breaks

of the lunar tide.

Someday you might read

and claim again

these moments of your past

as the tide recedes,

advances.