A poem of the sounds of life
The voice of a Soprano as she hits the high C
Love birds whistling high in a tree
Church bells chiming at the stroke of noon
Witches screeching out of tune
A batter misses a pitcher’s pitch
Thrown perfectly as if he wished
A concert hall filled with music galore
Who could ever ask for more
Each has its own perfect pitch
As the sewing machine sews stitch after stitch
Like a violin with its finely tuned strings
Like a stormy cloud with the rain that it brings
The sounds we hear each and every day
So different in their own different way
At times there may be an odd sort of glitch
As each sound seeks its own perfect pitch.
— WOLRAD(A Poem from the Wolrad Collection #99)
