Where Grace Begins

the scarred moon hangs overhead
moss spreads underfoot
vines multiply moment by moment
pulling her into the undergrowth
until shadows shrink at the first light
and small animals cry yes and
again yes

she moves into morning hours
blank as the names of the unborn
and opens her hands
as if to touch spring's lush palette
the rinsed body of earth
and every morning is childhood's mapless country
raw and splendid

walking barefoot in the wash of sunrise
feeling the blood's ascension
and her own sweet pulp  clear veins  ripened skin
she hears the summer glories
the birds shrill necessities
cadenzas ardent and unending
all through midsummer's extravagance

and in August heat
a slow spill of moments
as if earth stopped to take a breath
where she descends into hunger
before moving toward something certain
like the long swim
toward the silence of absolute light.
 

© Ruth Daigon