dang, mine’s Paul Jacobs’ Sunday Morning II
Your navel’s where we pumped in a song before you were born. It inflates the lungs, sours the breath, and keeps those lobes warm.
If ever you sing your song of birth, flesh will prickle and the niggling finally make sense, if only the truth about rain drops.
So slough the wonder; vocalize the answer. Never shy to sing and, for resonance sake, learn the damn words.