Trees resonate
in the dulcimer’s
wood frame
when your fingers
pluck the strings.
Once you finish
the song, I take
the dulcimer
from your lap.
Though silent now,
its wooden body
vibrates in my hands,
like forest trees
that sway in wind.

As I set the dulcimer
to rest on the floor,
I think of the infant
who has finished
his crying. Still,
the infant’s chest
rises and falls
with his breath.

After nursing,
lips still suck
the air. Cradled
against mother’s breast,
the infant
relaxes to the rhythm
of the heartbeat
in her chest.

For each living thing
thirsts, hungers and rushes
toward that great ocean
of love
that cradled us
even before our birth.

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