The racoon pauses
before my statue of Kwan Yin.
Still, near, barefoot, I smell
the musk, and know by the ancient
cinnamon scent in Autumn air
that Earth was just created
a moment ago.
Nothing that is real ever strives
to be other than it is.
Under the weight of grace
I lower my gaze, noticing
the color of the fallen,
how they forget their trees,
to bleed and surrender
the soul of gold to living loam.
There is no greater miracle
than becoming ordinary.
It give wings to your tears.
Painting by Rebecca Latham, collage by Rashani Réa
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