Craving Grace

The bell ringer persists as sheets of
Filth teem, drenching the drowning
Country in dim shades of indecency.
The party’s advertisement blares:
“Children are expendable”
Childhoods stolen. Long gone.
(Long past so what does it matter?)
Please disregard the acute destruction.
As real tears flood unseen amputations
And wild rage snarls saturated sorrow.
Disoriented raving is appropriate
(No matter what they say).

The bell ringer persists.
A bystander’s empathy dilemma.
Craving Grace with a capital G.
A fistful of loose change poured into the slot.
Coins in a kettle by a ringing bell.
An innocence requiem.
A tiny anointing.


6:20 Saturday morning.
Warm bed in the late fall chill.
Pierre meows to come in.
Ignoring him is futile.
I rise, groggy, resolved to return.
Then, a glimmer of splendor.
Our entry glows orange.
Window peering.
A ripe peach burst sky.
A glorious greeting.
Golden sun streaks shift.
A momentary quandary.
(My camera bag is in the car)
Shocking cold bare foot dash.
Plaid flannel rustles.
Damp grass amplifies the chill.
But, the bracing beauty.
A greedy gulp of magic.
Thank you Pierre.