​Even through the night, my ears never sleep,
but listen for the whisper of your voice.
They hear the wind as it moans through the trees
that point at the pale orb accusingly.
Though it is only partially to blame,
it too, at night,  serves to echo your name.
Not lulled to sleep by the cicada song,
they hear the nightingale deep in the wood,
with its sublime voice near the end of June
tugging at my heart in the summer heat,
arrived too early but never leaves soon.
They listen above the ceiling fan’s whir,
that mutes the complaint of my settling home.
When I think I hear you I dare not stir.
About the empty rooms my hearing roams.
They listen for you in the passing clouds,
that veil the stars as they blanket the earth.
I hear your voice in my mind and my heart,
hear you saying my name, for what it’s worth.
Your throaty promises against my neck,
the tears that you were unable to check,
the sigh in that moment when all was us.
My ears listen for you because they must.
They filter out the chirping of crickets,
and the croaking of an army of frogs
that serenade the Koi pond all night long,
then disappear in the morning like fog.
My ears listen for you at the sun’s rise,
trying to hear your voice in each new day.
At times they mistake you for another,
found in the sound of a familiar phrase.
Sometimes I can feel you just behind me,
a phantom presence so like my shadow.
Still my ears ache to hear your melody,
as if your voice of love is all they know.
As if they have nothing better to do
than listen forever for the sound of
M. Zane McClellan
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