She sounds when

the wind crackles her sparks

and her grey smoke

mingles with the low clouds

heavy laden with saving rain

for the mountain forests.

 

She sounds between the cracks

in the bedrock of memory

slowly going deeper

into the dark crevasses

from which all came,

and to which all go.

 

She sounds from heart to heart

across the tables, the aisles,

the generations, the ages—

holy contagion sung

between word and deed.

 

She sounds the bass note

in the heartbeat,

a little louder each day

until she calls out

and sings the world alive.