Is grace a thing revealed in a child?
For there’s the effortless beauty of her hands,
the dimpled knuckles—kisses, one to ten—
her hand in mine for safety in the wild
and graceless grown-up world. A tender favor
from above, this life entrusted me
with grace that knows no price—mine for free,
to be returned … but now, at least, to savor.
She dignifies my day with such a prize …
a present that I carry through the street.
I wear a secret smile for those we meet,
but even as I try to memorize
the outline of the tiny bird that flutters
in my palm, the child has left grandmother.