There were no instruments, of course,
so we blew grass reeds, clacked stones from the river,
There was always singing.
Your voice was changing;
your crooked singing made me laugh.
You didn't mind, it made you happy.
No one was orphaned in those moments.
The morning rain pattered on slate eaves.
I held your foot as you lay waning;
It went cold in my grasp.
Your chest, a rising and sinking knoll, grew still,
and mine became a volcano.
Still we tumble down dewy hills,
we chase flying bugs 'til breathless we fall,
and still we sing.
There is always singing.