Remembering Grace

 

By Martha Clark Scala

 

I look back to a crisp winter morning,

gaze through panes at a frost-tipped golden field.

Is that the neighbor’s dog, a stern warning?

What, amidst the sun-burned blades, lies concealed?

Perhaps if I take notes from that noisy bird,

might there appear directions to follow?

In truth, all I need is one simple word

and please, don’t let it be something hollow.

For now, as the day starts to shed more light,

I’m calm and ready to walk up the hill. 

The household rallies, ready to take flight.

The cats, like bookmarks, watch the house go still. 

Could I have known these were moments of grace?

This word I scribble, God’s footsteps I trace.

 

 


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