fiftyeight
the things I know have become me…
your heart pressed close
the
purple light of iris bloomed
the scent of rain on hot rock
the
rush of river over stone
wind
threading through a grove.
I have known one year after another.
but I will never know anything sweeter than…
your
trust
your
approach
your
gaze
your
hand
in
mine.
so grace becomes both phrase and metaphor.
hear me when I thank You and you and you for this life.
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