On Hoarding Grace


The sun does shine
on all, the greatest to the
small. The breeze…it
tousles flowing tresses, blades
of grass, majestic trees.
The tides shift sand as well
as stone, and earthen beds
of fecund soil embrace
the seeds of weeds
amidst more cultivated
blooms. Stars shimmering in
the firmament, grant wishes for
a dream. The moon reflects
both light and dark, her crescent
ticking new to full to new
and back again.

With nature’s unconditional
example, then who am I but
egoistic flesh, all grace to hoard.
I am a clay-thrown vessel
meant to empty, not fill
to brim, with stagnant stench
lamenting, “more…need more.”

kat ~ June 29, 2015

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