Sonnet 42

To thee that speaks to ears quiet of mine, Speak softly with thy lips that I may see, Thine thoughts in time that twirl to tell a sign, Of all the world and what words mean to me. So swift are silent storms so shy of sound, Teasing my tears wherefore I can not hear. So I assume, confusing what's around, Not knowing what the world is saying clear. Maybe one day a miracle will grow, Allowing something deaf to hear a drum. But yet I breathe and by my birth I know, That sense of sound will shelter something numb. To open ears that hear when thunder breaks, I'll never know the sound that lightning makes.