Your Grace

Orange and black butterfly teases
the breeze in a déjà vu loop

down-west to east-up mystery,
not a monarch. I open

the door, regret the reflected
flash in the fisher’s eyes.

What if every single thing
that dings my perception

is a miracle asking
for my thanks? What if

the offering I give
my sacred attention

is exactly what is
missing? I make free

of research and hypotheses
to prove. Release the idea

of traitor and treason to some
sovereign–painted lady–who has

carved wealth from my ancestors’
bones. Even this guitar,

pulling my fingers into old
patterns, calling my voice

to yesterday’s lyrics is new
in my embrace this morning.

I am in love
with my presents here now.

Every breath opens me
to new vistas eclipsing past.

I am supported by the wind
so light the ripples in the

grass can barely be seen,
but they bless me in this

guileless being, and changed,
we sing. Quietly, mindful

of the fishing heron’s dance,
poised like a priest at the altar

awaiting the congregation of
fishes to appear for their

sacramental blessing, a
visible form of grace.

Inspired by: Traitor, GuilelessResearch and the voice of my Ovation guitar–given as a birthday present 46 years ago–still bright and sonorous.

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Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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