Someday soon, you will tune the noise
Of our voices and forget the seizing monitors.
What is it we sing?
What is it you hear
Thrumming through your fontanelle,
Dashing against the curves of your ears?

Despite the noise, it’s love.
Love, as we talk of treatment,
Logic puzzles, jobs, and homes.
We wrap you in words, until there are no more words,
And then we hold you.
Love fills silence too.

Love fills the silence when treatment fails,
Love fills the boredom of hours by your crib,
Love fills the length between work and your room,
And the world between us is home,
And the distance is not so great.
And the time is not too long,
That we bring to love.

Remember this– these aren’t just words.
This noise, banal, suburban, dripping with
The ordinary, the shallow;
Fetch the meaning from them.
Not so thin, not so pale, because of where
And what
And who
And when
We say them.

The meaning behind our suburban melody
Is the drum of God’s own clapping hands.
Maybe you can hear Him, still,
Stomping, thumping,
Great, eternal bare feet,
Hands callused from striking starlight,
Clapping to bring your heart in time
To ours.

Tune your ears, and hear,
And sing.