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;