In certain constellation maps
I’ve learned to speak and frame this world,
The stars of “soul” and “breath” are one.
So when I heard an elder’s sigh,
I translated spirit at my ear
And turned to see his stories dammed
Behind an underwater exhale
As if my eyes were cisterns deep
Enough for casting old mens’ wishes
I sat within the darkness of myself
Behind, beneath my granite wall
And listened to spirit blowing by—
For its questions, for my answers… 

Every missed bus, a life vest
Every misplaced nail, foundation
Every mistress encountered, salvation
Every misfortune, divine treasure.
Mid-sentence and genuine, I confessed my envy
For his faith in the fates. He seemed surprised:
“Faith? There’s nothing to believe. Just ask Him
To reveal Himself to you. And He will.”

“Or, he won’t.”
“Or, He won’t.”

“I suppose that’s why they call it ‘grace’.”