Braver dreams, stronger songs, gifts that others give

It’s a soft horn

wails no comfort,

no comfort.

It’s a slow beat

moving slow feet,

slow feet.

It’s a big string bass

plucked in a dark,

dark place.

Drumming comes,

an unroused rhythm

stirring no blood,

and the voice cries next,

a sound like searching,

as if words might ignite,

burning the dead soul underbrush,

torching the tangled discontents,

opening the tender heart’s way

to braver dreams, maybe,

and stronger songs

and gifts that others give.