Common Grace

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May’s end and the fireflies

already flash against the tree line.

A blink of gold like a coin’s twinkle

amidst twilight’s purple-lined shadows,

edging the sky like a queen’s robe.

I just thought you should know.

I watch the early summer rains while

my hands polish plates over the sink.

No thunder, not yet. I haven’t seen

lightning sink into

fat black clouds

or heard the wind

push the misty cold air into the east.

The honeysuckles are back, though,

rimming the edge of the burned-out road

like waxy candles, white and gold. They

flicker with each swish of a passing Sanoma.

Do you see them, bursting, glowing like petaled

stars? Am I the only one who stops to taste?

And the blue woven between the crisp green

leaves, newborn lilies, pushing their petals

into the heavy air like orange rumpled fists?

I’m never lonely here on this bruised, irresistible 

earth, this world clothed in the robes of curious grace.

Can’t you hear the thunder now, coming close?