I have so many poems tucked away. I really do need to do up a chap book, even if I publish it myself...not for the ego or any guise of having 'talent' but for what the words teach. Lessons just flow through me when I write poetry...things I am not even aware I am thinking about come from this part of me that isn't me. It is a lovely mysterious process that I am grateful for. Poetry itself is Grace.
Grace
I set the table with a clean linen
cloth,
its corners crisp and ready.
The china reserved for special occasions
is laid down in an inviting
fashion
with the bowls big and deep,
waiting to be filled up.
Crystal stem ware twinkles in the
candlelight,
casting beautiful speckles of light over
the polished silver.
In the center,
I place a vase of perfect roses,
smiling, happy hosts,
content to be exactly what they
are.
I sit myself down at the table I set for
her
and I wait for Grace to arrive.
I am ready.
The First Course
In she comes,
a vision of angelic loveliness,
effortlessly carrying
the first course of understanding.
Her gowns billow behind her
as she moves forward
in fluid strides.
The past that once clung to her hem
slips off easily
and disappears into nothingness
as she sets down the first course
in the now .
I call my brother to me
to join in this festive meal Grace
provides.
Together we bow our heads and give
thanks
before scooping out big heaps of the
learning
laid before us.
The Second Course
In Grace comes again ...
the future she wore around her neck
vanishes into thin air
and the clocks behind us become quiet
and still.
She lovingly
serves the second course of acceptance.
Leaning forward so we can smell her
sweet perfume,
she offers motherly instruction on
the proper use of fork and napkin.
I find myself calling out
to the others hovering in the shadows,
hungry for what is being offered.
They gather at the table with us.
She fills all our glasses with
the very thing we thirsted for.
Again Grace arrives,
her perfect face
smiling down on all of us
as she places the piece De la resistance
in front of us.
We consume it ravenously,
sharing every morsel with one another.
The more the other eats,
the more our hunger goes away.
"Love"...
she calls her special dish...
"Love."
It fills us so much
we do not have room for dessert.
She smiles at us then,
removes her apron from her waist
and sits at this table,
laughing and talking
teaching and listening.
The candle light flickers
back and forth,
hopelessly competing with
the light that comes from her
forgiving presence.
It is a lovely meal.
I do not want it to end.
Hearing my unspoken words,
Grace whispers to me
over the twinkling crystal
in this timeless moment,
"It doesn't have to."
I smile and settle into the eternalness of now.
-Dale-Lyn 2012
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