The Call begins with an image of some­thing just out of reach—a vision of joy stand­ing atop a dis­tant hill, call­ing gen­tly but firm­ly to those below. It is not a loud cry, but a steady invi­ta­tion for hearts that long for peace after strug­gle. Though the path winds and ris­es steeply, the promise at the top offers enough light to keep weary souls mov­ing for­ward. Life’s bur­dens might weigh down the climb, but the hope of some­thing bet­ter push­es each step onward. The hill is symbolic—not just of effort, but of belief that hap­pi­ness is wait­ing for those will­ing to seek it. That vision, sim­ple yet pow­er­ful, becomes a rea­son not to stop. The climb may not always bring ease, but it brings pur­pose. And that, in itself, becomes a form of peace.

The speak­er doesn’t ignore the pain or chal­lenges along the jour­ney. In fact, they are acknowl­edged as essen­tial parts of the climb. Still, above every shad­ow and tri­al, Joy stands firm, arms out­stretched, remind­ing all who strug­gle that there is still some­thing beau­ti­ful to reach for. It is not a fantasy—it is the reward of per­sis­tence. The hill may not move clos­er, but those who climb become stronger. Each ache, each doubt, becomes proof of progress. And while the sum­mit is not promised to come quick­ly, the view becomes clear­er with every upward step. For many, the call is not just about reach­ing the top—it’s about refus­ing to turn back. It is a call to grow, to hope, and to believe that even sor­row has an end.

In Songs of Rejoic­ing, this hope­ful spir­it con­tin­ues, but now through the lens of song. The vers­es speak of melodies that rise not from per­fec­tion, but from hearts full of love and courage. The joy found in children’s laugh­ter, warm kiss­es, and sun­shine break­ing through gray skies reflects a music that doesn’t need instruments—just aware­ness. These are songs peo­ple car­ry qui­et­ly inside, remem­bered in busy hours and whis­pered dur­ing still nights. They don’t deny sor­row, but they remind us that joy is still pos­si­ble. These tunes uplift not by ignor­ing strug­gle, but by hold­ing space for hope beside it. They help peo­ple endure, and some­times even heal.

Each line in the poem echoes a long­ing for connection—to life, to oth­ers, and to some­thing brighter. When sung, these rejoic­ing songs don’t just lift the singer, but every­one who lis­tens. Their pow­er lies in sim­plic­i­ty: the idea that a kind word, a soft tune, or a famil­iar smile can shift an entire day. In this way, the music becomes more than a metaphor—it becomes a sur­vival tool, car­ried silent­ly by those who need it most. Through these songs, love and courage are kept alive, even in silence. They are reminders that beau­ty still exists, espe­cial­ly in the lit­tle things. And like joy on the hill, they too call to us—gentle, clear, and true.

In Anoth­er Mouth to Feed, the focus shifts inward, into a home already filled with warmth and oblig­a­tion. The arrival of a pup may seem small, but to the nar­ra­tor, it brings weight. There’s joy, yes, but also the quick math of gro­ceries, bills, and stretched wal­lets. Still, the pup is not turned away. Instead, he’s wel­comed with a grin and an under­stand­ing that real love often asks for qui­et sac­ri­fice. The house­hold grows, and so do the respon­si­bil­i­ties. But so does the heart. In the soft chaos of bark­ing and shared space, new joy blooms.

This piece doesn’t paint hard­ship as noble. Instead, it shows it as real—part of the choice to say yes to some­thing even when it com­pli­cates life. The nar­ra­tor knows it will be hard­er, but the reward isn’t mea­sured in com­fort. It’s mea­sured in loy­al­ty, shared moments, and the laugh­ter that slips through when no one is try­ing. The deci­sion to take in anoth­er is not made with ease, but with warmth. And it becomes anoth­er step in the same climb—the kind described in The Call. Anoth­er act of love that strength­ens the song described in Songs of Rejoic­ing. Anoth­er proof that life’s worth is not in ease, but in the mean­ing we give to its dif­fi­cul­ties.

Togeth­er, these poems form a qui­et anthem to liv­ing with pur­pose. Whether drawn for­ward by joy, car­ried through by music, or expand­ed by unex­pect­ed love, they show that life is rich­er when met with open hands and open hearts. They don’t promise a life with­out pain, but they cel­e­brate the moments that make it all worth­while. Through every climb, every song, every sac­ri­fice, a life of depth and beau­ty unfolds—not because every­thing is per­fect, but because it’s loved as it is.