Grace

and as I stand
a little closer
to my grave today,
when strands of silver
line the oval of my face,
I am learning to look into
the half-glowing heavens,
in silent curiosity,
with a steadfast faith
coursing through
my pulsing jugular,
and with one full breath,
call out my own blessed name,
and raise a full-throated song
giving thanks to this world,
which always gives me
my choicest meal,
without ever asking
for my name.

Tears of Grace

drink my tears
with your liquid eyes,
as I drink mine,
for they are yours
as much as they are mine;
let them fall
onto our parched
wrinkled skins,
waiting to be christened
with infinite love;
let's not wash them away,
let's not wish them away,
for they have come to us
from the heavens,
they are ours to keep
in the silent folds of our heart,
in the soft lashes of our eyes
that kiss them awake
with every blink,
in the cloth that soaks them
and patiently gathers
their fragrant longing
to meet ourselves
with a smile,
returning everything with love,
touching each others' hearts,
as we follow our destinies
untouched, untarnished,
to be the messy, glorious humans
that we each are.

Prayer Flags

the cold wind
stings and bites
into half-dead skin
ready now
to be shed
and blessed;
scars and wounds,
some healed, or
not healed -
chants of private grief,
framed in eternity.

memories and dreams
tied to
unwavering trees,
stories of pain
and longing
left untold still,
like silent prayer flags
dancing and riding
on the breath
of a fanning,
folding wind.