I’ve got peace like a river in my soul.
–African American spiritual, arr. by William J. Reynolds
“The thing about singing,” said grandpa,
“is you have to keep singing for it to come true.”
So a small group gathers
beating steady rhythm
calls the salmon home.
And a mother, through tears,
rocks her baby, letting her know,
she’ll buy her a diamond ring.
And the ghost of Woody Guthrie,
a sharp twang that bounces
down the canyon, keeps repeating:
“This land is your land.
This land is my land.”
We wake, turn on the smokebox,
wires to our ears like thin tapeworms.
Keep singing
At the coffin, at the pine-grove,
in the still small silences of night.
Keep singing
To remind yourself:
there didn’t have to be music in the world.
There coulda been blood and bruises
With no tourniquet, no balm.
There coulda been a pit
with no ladder
An ocean without dry land,
a storm without shelter.
There coulda been.
There’s no certainty
of benevolence. But
there’s music.
And you can sing
alone, in pairs,
or with the storm itself.
“The thing about singing,” said grandpa,
“is you have to keep singing for it to come true.”
