Sing

Minister. O Lord, open thou our lips.
Answer. And our mouth shall show forth thy praise.
—The Book of Common Prayer


Sing, sings the titmouse.
Sing, sings the bullfrog.
Sing, sings the cricket.
Sing, sings the robin, its twilight note
piercing the air, the heart, moving
me to open my lips, not to the Lord above
but to the fallen shards of heaven
sprung to life, giving voice through all these
pied and dappled creatures for joy and praise
that life flows, that the trees flower, that all
life blossoms and burgeons, that we rise
each morning to watch the sun’s aureole
brighten the tips of the farthest trees, or rain
drip from the eaves, snow drop in its delicate,
intricate glory. Light, dark—the interplay
life’s Gloria that we, by speaking, by
singing, bring to our own, wholly undivided note.