Again you returned 

to the break in the trees

where an old nurse log lay, snow-drifted

like an altar in a glade 

of its own making


and daily, like a prayer 

or an apprentice, you learned

how to listen

by listening 

near this broken architect of



until a clear day, when you heard 

its tall river still running

like a humming, reaching out —

not down, or up, and certainly 

not broken

but cast skyward

like the light that shines in


and you realized that grace isn’t 

only about listening 

or receiving

or even about falling


but longs to be spoken

to be gushed, in delight

and revealed like the sky — 


as a lavish response, freely


in an absence 

of answers.

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