Sweetly Sung

The jagged curve
of memory is an invitation
to contract around all that has been.

Like stitches tucked neatly into a wound,
healing efficiently clarifying the edges of pain
where crisis was forcefully certain of the body.

We tick away like an exact clock
and forget that a metronome
is only a tool
to measure time.

The joy with which we answer the call
to play or to weep
is all a choice.


I will decorate my front door
with colorful boughs and ribbon
and the stars will fall like laughter
at a celebration we can all be glad to be part of.

Like candles, or flowers,
or a song sweetly sung.