Not Speaking

Hoarse,
I feebly attempt
to clear my throat.

Only a raspy reed remains
where once was
                 a full baritone.

I can feel the phlegm
clinging stubbornly to my throat,
refusing to be coughed away.

Why did I call out so violently?

I howled my grief
and raged at the moon,
                  only to lose my thunder.

I’ve got lots to share
but have now lost
                 the means to say it.

Maybe this is a gift,
                  the price I must pay
for having roared my grief
into the cold night air.

I must rest my voice
to reinvigorate my words.

Becoming a listener is a gift too.
Not speaking will make it easier.

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This poem was written on November 7, 2025.