Grace

It could be the spring storm of snow and rain—

Flooding the cornfield, and finches, chickadees flocked

To the feeders next to the dwarf weeping cherry

In front of the window,

I open the medicine box, looking for grace—

The best kind for healing and mending unfinished words.

It’s Tuesday, the day after Monday, and tomorrow

Is never promised.  I don’t know what’s coming,

And gone is gone.  Here, I’m watching finches, pigeons,

The eternity wrapped under those wings.

What is here is not what is coming.  But what matters

In life is food, shelter, and love, mostly love.

It could be the enhanced memory, polished over and over

Like rolled pebbles in the river.  But grace can never be gripped

Or grabbed.  It floats in my river to yours.

I remember the brand-new flesh next to mine,

In the hospital, 1970 and 1974.  I couldn’t keep my eyes

Off the soft bundles of flesh.  I couldn’t believe the gifts,

And they were mine to keep.

Writing the rides of the floods of memories,

What else matters?  I want my boys to know

I love them.  They shook my rickety foundation

I stood on with a few sheets of dreams.

They reset my entire being.  We climbed the mountains,

Rode waves, lingered under the tropical sun,

And magnificent constellations of Orien and Southern Cross.

The spring is coming.  It could be all those things. 

Maybe, it could be none of those.

But I want to embrace the moments

Of the passing grace.