Your Grace

Yon maiden looked into the placid green pond on New Years Day

hoping to catch the image of Your Grace.

There in her draped demeanor she saw reflected

the grey, barren trunks and limbs of naked trees gathered ‘round

like polar bear dippers in winter’s midst.

Stoic and unclothed in the season

when they surely needed the warmth of their leaves,

the gathered wood had shed their robes into the pond,

now green with their color.

The wishing well, the healing pool

had turned the orange and yellow and red of autumn’s colorful wake

to their former green. Long, yearning roots sucked like straws on the green drink,

hoping for the help of spring to clothe the trees they fed.

The timber shared the mirror with winter’s diamond sun,

dour clouds, faint, flickering stars, and stolid moon.

Creation’s brew waiting for God to show up and drink,

waiting for the panting deer, waiting for spring,

knowing that Your Grace will come.

N. Wilynn Thomas

1-1-19