In The Musée d'Orsay

 

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