Stubborn Grace
J. Marshall Jenkins
In my hurry, I plead with her, but
stubborn grace will not
quicken her pace.
In my rush, I overshoot.
In my grasp, I overreach.
I arrive ahead of time
at a house where
someone I thought I was
can call home,
but not me.
I gather and store a kitchen-full,
all sweet and chewy and fragrant,
cinnamon buns with coffee,
cheese cakes with strawberries
that I photograph to show friends
before gobbling them up
and finding myself hungry again.
Meanwhile, grace sits back there
by the path to here
in a green meadow,
picnic basket beside her,
sun dress spreading before her
its flowers. She smiles,
savors every passing moment,
breeze caressing her hair.
It takes much more than
all the time in the world
for me to wise up
and turn around
and join her
in the feast.
But how I long to take her hand
and walk with her
at her pace
forevermore
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