A Grieving Song for Unsung Lullabyes

Small steps, my child,
in this wilding place.

Sharp life everywhere,
the spaces too.  

Steps, small steps, child, 
tiny prayers, hopes blown

into the trees, 
the faraway birds,

taking safety in the chant
of this golden butterfly’s rise,

who drank from the splash 
of the summer rain

in the chase of light 
atop the trees.

Small steps, child, 
forward, sure and true.