Perfect Sense
There is a balm in Gilead
to make the wounded whole.
There came a child once
who sang God’s peace,
a potent “all is well,”
though nothing was,
piped in a small voice
in the middle of a dark night
with no promise of dawn.
Too young to read,
she sang songs by heart
mixing up tunes and words,
adding nonsense sounds
as gleeful as odes to joy,
with grace notes that made
dirges pirouette;