“When preachers in the rural Methodist churches I attended as a boy spoke of grace, I thought of rain.”
– Scott Russell Sanders
Grace falls into this
Measured chalice, taunting us
To cipher Heaven.
But who could count the
Ageless rains, cleansing countless
Pilgrims, pulsing through
The Ganges, the Nile,
The sylvan-clad French Broad: each
Sky-soaked to the brim?
Originally published in Valley Voices: A Literary Review, Vol .18, No. 2, Fall 2018
Photo and poem © Gene Hyde