Grace

Grace, four years old,
Curled up in a suitcase and fell asleep,
Grace is the curve of a butterfly wing,
A house without mirrors,
Another day the sun shining,
The waterwheel ceasing its grinding,
A full-night's sleep,
Acceptance
Breathing.

Grace is the pacific slowly heaving
The sand shifting as you dance
Your hair flailing wild in the wind.
The leaves putting on their dresses,
Red and yellow, nighttime flashes,
Dying with smiling dignity
Streaming into infinities
With a firework scream

A mother's arms
Crying
Testing a broken wing.
She walks slowly, loves so firmly,
Never troubled, never rushed.
A pulse like the coming of autumn.