LULLABY FOR THE GRIEVING at the Sipsey River make small steps. in this wild place there are signs of life everywhere. sharp spaces, too: the slip of a rain-glazed rock against my searching feet. small steps, like prayers— each one a hope exhaled into the trees. please, let me enter. please, let me leave whole. there are, too, the tiny sounds of faraway birds. the safety in their promise of song. the puddle forming, finally, after summer rain. the golden butterfly against the cave-dark. maybe there are angels here, too— what else can i call the crown of light atop the leaves? what else can i
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