The Hour of Grace

I used to think it was a surprise

Like water lilies in childhood–imperfect, out of reach.

I used to think there was luck. 

I turned with these bad eyes,

Watched the absurd insects,

& played all morning alone.

Luck made the world & its strange sights.

 

But now is dispersed–

Chance, winged seeds,

The prophesying chaos  

Until there is the half of wandering,

The half of ceaseless change.

I'd rather be the wind, dear God

In games that go on.

 

S.K.