Lullaby for the Grieving

at the Sipsey River

make small steps.

in this wild place

there are signs of life

everywhere.

sharp spaces, too:

the slip of a rain-glazed rock

against my searching feet.

small steps, like prayers-

each one a hope exhaled

into the trees. please,

let me enter. please, let me

leave whole.

there are, too, the tiny sounds

of faraway birds. the safety

in their promise of song.

the puddle forming, finally,

after summer rain.

the golden butterfly

against the cave-dark.

maybe there are angels here, too-

what else can i call the crown of light

atop the leaves?

what else can i call

my footsteps forward,

small, small, sure?