Her Voice
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Her voice was the first safe thing I knew,
before my eyes could make much sense,
before the world had shown its shape—
her voice was the first evidence
that I was not alone in it,
that someone warm was close and watching,
that the dark outside the window
was held back by her watching.
I still hear it when I need it most,
calling me back from where I wander—
mother's voice is the oldest compass,
the one I follow without ponder.
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Her voice was the first safe thing I knew,
before my eyes could make much sense,
before the world had shown its shape—
her voice was the first evidence
that I was not alone in it,
that someone warm was close and watching,
that the dark outside the window
was held back by her watching.
I still hear it when I need it most,
calling me back from where I wander—
mother's voice is the oldest compass,
the one I follow without ponder.
