Choir

Voices blend and bring us back from other
places in the world created in our
image: home, work, play, moment, minute, hour.
Hearing song, one wonders why we bother
with the lie of self, its insistent claw
for glory, ache for spark, which never calms
and like the broken-down has little draw,
a life lived seeking proverbs without psalms.
The old, who've heard and seen, have words for us
(Be patient) for when we slow and listen,
such disparate tones and tempos trust in
one another, rise and savor chorus.
And in their range no vacant place exists,
just palms bared high, no longer raised as fists.

Copyright © 2003 Jeff Hardin All rights reserved
from The Formalist
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission