Remarkable Grace

I know that there is a miraculous power

hidden in the secret places of grass,

passing silent witness to the way the ground gives

as the noisy trees take root and make leaf

and the shaking sweet perfume within quiet air

seeps from the remarkable grace of a flower.

The sky is alive with motion and song

and the water rejoicing the hours of the sun

catches the bow of withering limb

reflecting it back to itself yet again.

Caught in the invisible web of all time

with strands like a hand print all warped and wrinkled,

the ancient things hang from the walls and the halls

of the children with laughter and games made of sticks.

Falling like stones on the heel of attachment,

belie not the power of a just waking child

to exquisitely find that the petal still falls.

The beautiful water reflects in the faces

of the children of children of old,

for the dying will open the path to the summer

where the birth of contentment opens living again.

So quiet the photograph slaps at the knowledge

that half of the tree is alive in the air

where the birth of contentment breaks out of the sky

and the other reflection lives again in your eye.