The trumpet playing
The baby crying
Children playing soccer against my wall
They pale into insignificance against the sound
Of the pressure washing of the building,
And the water coming under the door
We are in a storm in here
The windows are blurred
Like portholes of a tiny tugboat
Tossed by the waves
But we are learning to ride these waves
And our eyes, the window to our soul, pour down
Then we see more clearly the brightness of the Sun
And the glory of everything we are
And everything we are meant to be.