The Fall

What is Grace

but to fall

through this breath

into the unspeakable

radiance

of the heart,

and discover

you were always

already here?

A peony opening

in moonlight,

an infant's smile

at the breast,

the mother awake,

fragrance of rain

in hay grass

on a Summer morning.

Sacraments

of the ordinary

pointing the Way
to themselves,

every flame-tipped thing

conspiring

in a ceaseless revelation

to whisper Yes,

you are here.

Photo: from my brother's porch, in my motherland, Chester County PA.