Off Radio

The woods whisper through an off radio.
Antennas lose their voice, but gather echoes of time.
Forgotten objects remain listening, searching for sound.
Leaves act as microphones to secrets of keys and coins.
A rusty key beats time upon the roots.
An old diary sighs between paper and mud.
A cold button presses an absent memory.
A hat without a head seeks its word among the branches.
The forgotten clock marks the hour of missing plays.
The whisper grows, until the radio seems to restart its breath.
Objects take voice, no longer silence, but name.
And the forest, happy, returns them to time passing.