The whoosh
of turning a crisp page
The whirl
of setting an invisible stage

The rustle
of wind running through a tree
The tumble
of waves washing on the sea

The silence
of roots tunneling into the earth
The whisper
of a season’s new birth

The meaning of sound
hits us round and round
It’s something we let pass us by
yet we know inside it will always fly

In every moment you look
there’s a song to hear
In every lesson we took
was a harmony so clear

My name is grace
but my sound has a different pace
A verse without labels or forms
and a chorus with peaceful storms

-Grace