Betsy Wheeler’s lyrics remind me why and how in poems we sing. Devoted to a kind of a daily ecstatic, these almost-odes deftly mine the key of loving observation in which subjectivity is as much outward-leaning, outward-learning, as inward, and the things of the world are noted both as musical marks and as tender missives, and the ear is a sense-making organ in that body we call the mind. There’s a lovely human nakedness here—an aspect of almost liquid clarity and play—or a lovely nakedness to experience seen and sung this way.
