Grace
Again you returned
to the break in the trees
where an old nurse log lay, snow-drifted
like an altar in a glade
of its own making
and daily, like a prayer
or an apprentice, you learned
how to listen
by listening
near this broken architect of
grace
until a clear day, when you heard
its tall river still running
like a humming, reaching out —
not down, or up, and certainly
not broken
but cast skyward
like the light that shines in
and you realized that grace isn’t
only about listening
or receiving
or even about falling
but longs to be spoken
to be gushed, in delight
and revealed like the sky —
as a lavish response, freely
given
in an absence
of answers.
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