like so many fireflies
blanketing the woods of our days
and then flitting away
even the last sparks we have cupped in our hands.
The brightest moments, the cleanest water, the sincerest prayer
are all things that rest momentarily in the hollow of grace we make
with our palms.
Life is a constant pattern of beauty retreating, flowing
like water, like the breath that utters the prayer ascending,
like ephemeral light bearers leaving
with the assured expectation of all that beauty
(can it be measured with palms curled like leaves ready to unfold,
can it be measured with all the curled palms in the world?)
being invoked again. — Annette Marie Smith