Voice

The timbre is the timbre is the timbre in time

As the face changes, familiar but lined

And hair is lined light and dark combined

That night and day do, since their fairest prime.

He looks at her changes, she at his change

And it is she and he new, that others call age

Mobile or resting and never just a stage

Though skin thins, bones wear, cells break passing strange.

Consistent is the clear tone of their voice

Charmed and distinctive. That someone always,

That only one, never just one in the crowd,

Reading this moment quiet or aloud

These words where the throat deals displays,

This rarity of sound for which you have no choice.