My songs sneak up behind the high-chair and the crib
and wait for me to find them
and wipe them up and vaccuum them in
with the crumbs and drips that keep them company.

My songs set in with patience until I Cheer them away 
in hot or cold--they rest on books and bookcases,
on the television and the chest awaiting my oiled cloth
to gather them in.

My songs hide behind curtains, beneath the bathtub ring
and under the couch as if it were a game to hide
exactly where they know they will be found.

They jump into the dinner pot and then into the sink,
and I find them every day and try my best to sing them
before they run off into another waiting task --
and how I love to sing my songs.

They are my tribute to God and family 
and they identify my soul when it gets confused.

My songs lie lurking between the lines of "Count with Tigger,"
and inside the stuffing of each small cuddly toy.
They permeate baby's lotion and fold themselves into her blankets.
They hang on the telephone cord when I dial
numbers to friends, family...husband.

My songs must be found each day, and in the most common places
I encounter the music which makes me whole, makes me love
and makes me sing.