Dusk; mere moments
before darkness will envelop day and the mood
will shift. My spirit leans into the western sky,
toward gardens of grace bolted and chained.
Unafraid, I awaken to the fullness found
within the cold, dark night
of my banishment.

Intuition
tells me this is but an opportunity
to stand in faith, to wait, arms open, heart broken,
for friends who found in me a touchstone
for their fury at life’s beautiful, seemingly
merciless, mysteries
that will not be solved.

Soft violet blends
with a falling haze of peach marmalade as a tear
escapes unexpectedly. On the horizon,
deep purple sips last glow from our side
of heaven. Radiance has not gone out in me.
Nor in God, I see, who
laughs with joy and lights

candelabra
constellations, having finished finger-painting
for today. Shhh, God whispers. Listen. And I do.
Accustomed now to revelation,
visions and dreams that sometimes frighten even me,
I stretch heav’nward, await
the voice from on high.

Silent and still,
concentration fixed on the firmament, velvet
waves of wonder appear. White hot stars dance, remind
me of spirit lost so long in me.
Breathtaking, this unfolding story of grace. But
I hear no sound, and God
says no more to me.

I look away
in puzzlement, then frustration, wondering if
even God would stonewall me, build a barrier,
call to me as if it’s all a joke.
Spiraling down, thoughts take me to where the Father
of Confusion reigns. And
just before I slide

farther, follow
false line of logic to a conclusion devoid
of grace, deal faith a fatal blow, I raise my eyes.
Meaning to tell God I told you so,
even you’ve pulled the rug from beneath me, instead
I hear a little voice
echo in my mind

and memory
gushes forth inexplicably, water from rock.
It is the voice of my son trickling in from years
forgotten. “Mommy, what is grace?” This
he asks me after a succession of questions
I cannot answer, things
I cannot explain.

Sinking that day
in pain, he demanded answers I could not give;
they remained jagged-edged mysteries to me.
And I cried with him, because I had
no way to dry his tears. And then his voice, softer,
surer: “Mommy, what is
grace?” And silence, then.

That such a shard
of innocence survived in him was miracle
to me, and yet I felt for certain this question
would mean the unraveling of all.
I willed words to come forth from me, but they refused.
No sound passed from my lips
and I was falling

when he reached out
and hugged me. I held him close and cried, tried again
to speak. Finally, I looked him in the eye, saw
his heart, a beautiful mystery,
and I told him, this, this is grace. Here and now, you
and me. “I knew you’d say
that,” he said and smiled.

And all was well.
And all is well, because this, this is grace, this night
when God comes to sup with me, offers up a cup
of comfort and speaks through memory.
We walk through gardens where Christ offered up his cup,
and even in the dark,
there’s light. I can see.