You may be the crystal goblet and the wine, but I am the sound of rain on a tin roof, the smell of fresh cut grass on a summer evening, the feeling of the words "glass bottles" as they slide over the lips of a child. I am the train whistle slipping down the river and over windowsills in the night, the still chatter in vibrant green woods as spring topples into summer, and I am becoming the cold contentment of a thick, long snowfall.
I couldn't become the full bodied melody of the windchime, though I so badly wanted to be, or the smell of woodsmoke clinging to clothing days after the fire. I was almost the faded book bindings in the upstairs window, but fell short, the same way I fell when I longed to be the sound of the coffee, falling and gurgling into the pot in the morning.
I will become many things still, and have been others in the past, but right now I am, and always will be the sound of rain on a tin roof.