The girls sang better than the boys, <br />their voices reaching All the way to God, <br />Sister Ann Zita insisted during those <br /> practice sessions <br />when I was told to mouth do, re, mi, <br /> but to go no higher, <br />when I was told to stand in back <br />and form a perfect 0 <br />with my lips <br />although no word was ever to come out, <br />the silent singer in that third-grade <br /> class <br />during the Christmas Pageant and Easter <br /> Week, the birth and death <br />of Christ lip-synched <br />but unsung <br />while my relatives, friends and parents <br /> praised my baritone, <br /> how low my voice was, <br />Balancing those higher, more childlike tones, <br /> my father said, <br />Adding depth, my mother said, <br />Thank God they had my huskiness to bring all <br /> that tinniness to earth, <br /> my great-aunt whispered, <br />so I believed for many years in miracles <br /> myself, <br />the words I'd never sung reaching their ears <br /> in the perfect pitch, the perfect tone, <br />while the others stuttered in their all-too-human <br /> voices to praise the Lord.<br /><br />Len Roberts<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-silent-singer/
