Ellen Reiss

Life comes delicately,

And in an afternoon of winter,

Lungs, a throat, small lips

Never heard before

Utter sound.

In the cries of the babies of New York

Are the noises

That float and tumble from a universe of sound.

In an hour, in a day,

In a neighborhood of New York,

I hear an orchestra of Beethoven,

And your beginning lungs.