get through the day on this mistake,
bitterness and all it
imposes. Trumpeters of the small,
awake; play music that all,
happy and sad, may make.
A heart that hardens
before its own tenderness
finds a luxuriant garden
in rhyme, and that's the snare
I won't be caught in here:
come, trumpets, that I may bless.
Each morning
I fight with my pen's
bitter singing
to make it whole
to make a soul
that makes all over again.
Trumpets of delight,
I hear your voices far:
what is the song? — Write
for a waking child:
his morning tears and smiles
are all that these words are.