Of course the laughing brook is singing.
So are the stones, even the big ones, singing.
The ice in Antarctica, the ice slipping off Greenland,
the river entering the ocean is singing.
Mountains are singing, and not the great deep
sonorous dirges you expect, but little ditties.
Air has a song. Excuse the obvious, but it's a lovely little air.
The rock beneath the soil has a tune it can't get out of its head.
The bottom of the sea and the stars
are joined in intricate six-part harmony.
The man in the moon—look and you'll see—
is a happy man singing a sad song.
Cities sing. Houses sing. Airplanes don't sing but
the people in them sing, long songs streaking across the sky.
Everything is singing, singing. Liturgies and chants,
oldie goldies, sea chanteys, incantations,
wedding songs and elegies, rope-skipping tunes, hymns,
fight songs, and loves songs... oh, the love songs.
Your guts are singing all the time, singing.
Your bones are a song. Your skin. Your eyes.
I don't know what this means, but God
is singing a little song in you right now. Always.
August 26, 2019