The Gift of Grace
In a new home,
a new house,
I watched my mother
plant
Iris tubers brown and wrinkled,
small sticks emerging
from the earth
to be roses,
not bits of dust but tiny seeds.
She trusted.
She saw the coming
beauty,
the grace of knowing
Soul
as active
as creative
as a surety.
The garden blooms in
glory,
all foreseen
In the springtime
garden
my father turned the
soil,
made rows straight
for
tall stalks of corn,
low rows of beans,
tomatoes in between.
He trusted.
He saw the coming
harvest,
the grace of knowing
Soul
as productive
as supply
as certainty.
The garden feeds us
well,
all foreseen
The gift of grace
is knowing what
beauty looks like
before it appears.
The gift of grace
is knowing how to do the work,
to express Soul’s
plan.
The gift of grace
is seeing completed
good
in now’s process.
The gift of grace is
knowing Soul.
