Tuesday, January 23, 2018

a meeting point

Lightning flashes
before the sun is even awake.
It's a premature flash of dawn
early in the day.

A fly lands on my hair—
aren't insects supposed to be dead in January?—
cold weather's for freezing out the pests.
I smash him in between the sheets of black and white,
and discover him later,
blood gluing his corpse to my book.

Extend grace to each other.
I did,
I respond.
But grace doesn't have an expiration date.

We're in the belly of a giant,
his central heating rumbling,
resolving in a fart
of steam,
Causing more than one student in this seminar
to suppress a smile.

I am sitting next to a princess,
disguised as a peasant,
her large hands, unkempt nails,
used to doing hard work
or scrubbing. Just lots of scrubbing
for the fools who mistake her for ordinary.
But her face is untouched by labor.

Rain has washed the snow away,
I can see a chilly cocktail of
snowflakes and raindrops
shifting in the tacking wind.

It's a simple definition:
grace is mercy, and mercy, grace.
Both: unmerited, unearned,
but responsible for bringing us back
to ourselves,
by drawing us out of ourselves.

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