Sounds—a poem by B

at last, by grace unheard

wrapped in a silence

authored by unbound beech and oak

pierced by thrush and tanager and lark

who ask no applause from me

but command my joy to rise.

Stagnant, deathly mine pits drained—

at last, by grace washed clean

by streams so living

they sing the banks and borders

into harmonies of green

and cottonwoods quaffing life and dripping praises

and maples descanting the blood-red song

that stilled the angry shovels and drills forever.

Sound-boxes shattered and still—

at last, by grace silent—

no chattering of confusion and death

no tangled love-twisting tales

no seducing of dreams meant for this place

but bent for rotting hearts

of children become young self-gods

become at last grown dissonant corpses

all dreams here washed

by songs telling only of glory.

Children wail no more for tummies bloated

and mommies slashed—

semiautomatic obscenities swallowed

by fresh-squeezed squeals and citrus laughter,

by giggle and chant of “Ragtime, tag-time, you can’t catch me!”

as small feet weave through willows

and splash the shallows

and melody the morning symphony

and I hear

at last, by grace victorious

the voice I longed for

as One who was pierced and drained and slashed

laughs, “You’re it,” and

tumbled hugs and chuckles

counterpoint the chorale

that kisses each child

with the coda sung

before the world began,

“I make all things new.”