What is Grace
but falling,
returning through
this breath
to the unspeakable
radiance
of the heart,
and discovering
that you were always
already here,
held and beheld,
A plum bud opening
in moonlight,
an infant's smile,
the fragrance of rain
in hay grass
on a Summer morning?
Sacraments
pointing the way
to joy,
every flame-tipped thing
conspiring
in a ceaseless revelation
to whisper Yes,
you are here.
Photo by Kristy Thompson
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