How completely unlike herself, you think, smiling,
and by now you know better than that— Grace
juxtaposing beneath the black swirl
of clouds while she in haste unfurls herself,
presses hard against the glass,
tap, tap, tap, demanding,
Quick, come look, good morning! Hurry please!
Looks at her watch,
We haven’t got all day!
Covers thrown, running out the door to see
her sun struck glow in the trees, alighting the hills in flame,
mere minutes before the drenching rain.
You’re left aghast, and she trails off as though nothing had happened, and
you suspect she’s been lying in wait all night.
This, a singular act of benevolence you’re chosen for, again and again.
Your fate, you say.
Striking when you’re not looking, she knows where you are.
And suddenly she’s there begging for witness, posing this way and that,
when you were just minding your business,
demanding you grab your camera or pen.
She devastates your heart with her wildness.
Bearer of all that’s untamed, you’ve become uncultivated, mad—too much
for any one person you say.
You must give it away, standing on corners, reciting her scriptures
in lines and pictures—offering her sweet-scented petals, like small prayers,
like small acts of kindness to anyone
in desperate need of water or salvation.