The flowers of grass open to
my dull tread tracking
through the dew of grace,
rain of tears, flow of blood
into the sun of your beaten face.
I step into the welcome
of the wind
and pass over to the unknown
where I am desired
beckoned by beauty, the beckoning
terror of sheer beauty.
I return changed,
witness to the secret place,
bearing the wounds
of beauty’s face.
