Grace

If you ask me why she is unique,
I will point to amber leaves
arching up and under
the silhouette of a morning moon,
and have you take note
of how she stretches her calves
on a winding, valley road
attempting to chase away and bury
past regrets all of us share.
It doesn’t matter that she can’t see the finish,
the way a heron touches down on still water
feeling relieved from the effort of wings
yet unknowing of the grace that has allowed it to rest.
It is this sanctuary of space and time,
a place we have all ventured.
Like white haired women pausing in the rain,
we are able to take back
what we have already planted
and laugh at worries that have washed away.
She is no longer the fool
jumping haphazardly, hanging upside down,
but rather a subtle priestess
running through storms and clouds.