May the song of my life be a harmony needed
Sung through these hands and feet whittling space
an Echo. . .
Beauty, sneaky yet yelling.
Truth, shining not explicit.
Creativity.  Vive!  Zest.
Confetti thrown courageous,
And then a deep breath.
Hugs for tears, just slow enough–
to pull up bootstraps, reboot, and throw out holy socks
as we set out to sing again.
Crescendos prompted by listening
Seasons say wait, no wait little one antsy.

That we might be someone else’s green table
an echo of Christ in our little corner
Rippling out.
For big ripples never come before little
and amen marks the beginning. . .

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