Rope of Grace

A blossom.


Whatever the season, is enough.

The seeds are plentiful, roots are ready

to please the sky that allows the sun’s warmth to raise stems from the ground,

and the clouds that bring the gift of water. Unwrapped, it falls, drops at a time, 

the mud parts, revealing tunnels that quench the earth’s thirst, 

softening the ground for our feet.

But heaven won’t descend. 

Afraid we may stop growing. 

Until the hidden bud flowers, 

the inner fragrance can’t climb the rope of grace, 

and take us to the outstretched hand.


The Sacred

Diluting itself, so it may not be found by the eyes,

the sacred spreads.

In dry empty space,

in darkness or light,

and in specks of air and dust.

Sleeping on a reservoir of the sacred’s essence,

the mind searches using hands and feet as its eyes.

While the sacred waits.

Right here, within grasp,

in a fist full of air.



As I rest my head

on a pillow of dreams 

I promise to watch, for a hint of

gratitude. It’s hidden somewhere. 

The mind paints fiction, so moving,

forcing me to believe 

words leaping from my tongue as true.

But heartbeats say otherwise.

I’ve listened, in silence, to one. 

Before I dry and disappear

I pray, the cloud of dreams part 

and my eyes open

to the fountain of gratitude.

I’m willing to trade, 

all my blood, for a drop.