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In Tribute

For Katie McBride and her perfect run
This morning I heard a rare bird singing
A most beautiful song; in a voice so sweet
And pure it brightened sunlight.  
Surely you must have heard?

I thought she was the perfect answer
To my plight, and meditated on it.
I wanted to make my acquaintance,
But wherever I looked no bird sat atop
The bough, and the voice became
That of a child borne aloft—so eloquent
And elusive, like a snowflake in summer.

We run around, driven by our hectic pace
And thought, in too many directions,
Exhausting all our strength,
And we suffer for it.
Be that as it may, she gives us
The angelic gift of her impassioned song;
I always want to hear it.

That her faultless little steps not be lost
I linger on the thought: no shadow now
Can hurry her off at last; she makes
Her own sweet time, secure and snug,
To take her fill of God’s Heavenly will,
And blesses us for listening.
There she sings, so the greatest sorrow
Becomes a joy, that we may have
Our dreams and prayers to live by,
Promised all along.
--Stephen Cipot