What is Grace
but falling
through the silent flower
of this breath
and being held
by the unspeakable radiance
of your own heart?
Compare it to
a thrush's egg
opening at midnight.
The moon suddenly
surfacing on a forest pond.
The fragrance
of Summer morning rain
in hay grass.
A sleeping infant
who smiles with a secret
you have forgotten.
Or in the Musée D'Orsay,
a stranger gazing
at the same Renoir as you.
Both turn
and you recognize
a lover from long ago.
At once your chest is filled
with liquid fire.
Surely, you choose
each sacrament
of the ordinary
so that you
may be chosen.
Photo: Dance at the Moulin de la Galette, Renoir, Musée d'Orsay