Take a note away, Mama,
And does the song stop singing?
No, of course, not…
Unless the note was the key to end all keys, and then, well,…
Then, yes, of course, yes.
The note in its absence would render the song unsingable.
Put a note in right here,
And does the song stop singing, now?
No, of course not…
Unless the new note was a sound too big for their own britches
Then, yes, of course, yes.
The note with its presence would, like a tsunami, drown the town and all its inhabitants.
Change a note from one to another,
And does the song stop singing?
No, of course not…
Unless the change was the accidental death of one to be surprised by another
Then, yes, of course, yes.
The note, with its opportunistic slide into the vacancy of the ordained,
would cheapen integrity, like a paring knife cutting away more than just the peel,
until the song, too, dies a death mourned by all who sang, believed, and blossomed.
Blend two notes together,
And does the song stop singing?
No, of course not…
Unless the chord of two brings way for a third, and then, well…
Then, yes, of course, yes.
When you arrived, everyone held their breath, the songs stopped singing,
like the moment when instruments wait, wait, wait—
silence before the conductor’s baton, up from its peak, crashes down to the first beat—
not a sound could enter while we all took it in,
the fullness of your sweet music, the sound of freedom.
You are here.
And from the moment you arrived until forever’s forever has come and gone by,
nothing can stop the songs from singing your sweet music, the sound of freedom.