Sarah, A Lady Of Grace
written by: John Grey
A jaunt through Autumn wonder,
an Art museum of reds and yellows
watched over by green pine guards;
no wish to be inside, not now when the ordinary
blows up into a fledgling landscape by Thomas Cole
or a forest cut and pasted by Villon;
even your poor vision is reinvigorated
by the everywhere claims of pastels for your attention,
your last go-round with shape and hue and structure;
for you, the perfect afterlife would be a heaven
modeled by October, wind blowing like a harp concerto, light,
less summer doctrine, more granted wish,
and trails crackling with the newly fallen;
you’d take your chances there,
the mind restructured to take the place of eyes,
no corrupted body, no fear of losing touch,
an eternity that never tires of twinning souls and scenery;
for now, you’re happy to slowly walk
where muted flaunts, understated gleams,
somewhere beyond a lifetime of loss,
in a gait of grace, of setting your feet straight.
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