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.
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