Perfect Sense

There is a balm in Gilead 
to make the wounded whole.

There came a child once 
who sang God’s peace, 
a potent “all is well,” 
though nothing was, 
piped in a small voice 
in the middle of a dark night 
with no promise of dawn. 
Too young to read, 
she sang songs by heart 
mixing up tunes and words, 
adding nonsense sounds 
as gleeful as odes to joy, 
with grace notes that made 
dirges pirouette;

such as her muddle 
about the meaning of balm, 
thinking it an explosive 
that turned into medicine 
“to make the wounded whole,” 
which made perfect sense 
surpassing the wisdom 
of those who could read 
and knew better, except 
there was nothing better 
than bomb becoming balm 
and soldier becoming healer 
in the song of a child whose 
every word meant peace.