Bairn

There is no way to explain
the light that rises into a room
from the early morning bloom of snow;
through closed lids, the slow dawning
of white. The body is quick to know
the pace of the day has changed, the space
wiped clean to make way for the first bird, first song.

There is no way to explain
how, even when the world is wrong, 
too spent, too old, it can still be new, renewed
by you, by your first sound, clear note
against the dark. Today, your voice
rising into the house,
the face of the day is changed.

There are things that cleanse the heart.