Alchemy

Moments of grace in our settled sights,
a simple walk, no more;
you stopped to pick up leaves along the way.
 
Shakeup of elements.
Carnage --
then a breath.

Grace is in the bones unbroken,
skin intact, the integrity of organs --
but also in the wound,
the fracture. Rupture is not
the opposite of wholeness
but its condition.

Huddled under neighbors' blankets,
we let things go and breathe.

You won't remember this:
not the broken windows,
not the trucks or men in heavy yellow overalls,
not the crack of Christmas lights
crunching underfoot.
(I had meant to take them down.)

I know now, too, that you have lost
the time when I was there,
when we were one family,
when you and I and, yes, your father
faced each close-knit day together.

Then, I only felt the transmutation
resulting from that one clear moment's grace.