Grace is like a sapling
it roots in the debris.
I believe this.
I have seen this
and touched it
and tasted it.
But here
in this desert season of rock and ash
a ground fecund with detritus
I confess that sometimes
I wish You would don a cape
and would soar through the sky.
I wish You were faster than a speeding bullet
and whisked in to save the day in Hollywood fashion.
I know Hollywood endings are fairytales
and the stuff of cheap grace
but sometimes
I wish it were not so.