Bel Canto

Courage is the first of the virtues,
because it makes all others possible. ~ Aristotle

Sweet wind that trembles the first shoots sprouting
from cracks in the walk: it is such little things
that most undo me. For instance, I know it wasn’t
the a capella voices in the high school choir we heard
singing Laudate Dominum tonight, that ruffled the leaves
or brought on the sudden evening shower. And yet, each
young face, so plaintive and perfect above concert black
and white, pulled at the edges of reverie. From open mouths,
notes of praise hovered, poured full before descent and
dissolution. Isn’t it true there is hardly anything
unconnected with any other thing? So I must believe
that there is nothing merely in the manner of a tangent,
that each bud blooms in the way a code becomes more
and more apparent. In my palm I cradle a phone that
only hours ago, carried a message from my mother—
I am so sad, she wrote. I want to ask for your help,
whatever you can send. What heart would not sing
everything it could muster from the depths, every
tendril, even the ones just beginning to turn green.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.