Before the Thought


If only i had known before
which high altar you dwelled in,
O how i would have adorned
Your descending grace

With lavendar lined fields
And sunflowers to compliment
Its unyielding sacred joy.

But i never saw it, you were
the whisper in the wind
As people danced and loved
In the sun light around me.

I always used to look for you,
After the thought has past,
Until i had no thought left
But blank stare at an old friend

Whose memories groaned
Of old sacred text, like a map of
Wanting that kept him
Wanting too.  Madly he cried
Out, “where is this grace
They speak of? Where are you?”

He sobbed in his open hands
until he saw me there
Looking to give him a hand.
And then he said to me, laughing,

“You are the only grace that
Comes when i plea for it,
should i call you God?”

I always wonder if he heard
his own words
that followed his suffering,

Like grace itself was oozing
from the ripened harvest of honey
suckles hanging from the limb.

Now i hear you as loud
as a laughing child
running down the hallway.

I See you as the rain drops
falling in the forest
Of tall mossy trees and bluejays,

As they sing about the water
How it Kicks up the soil,
and releases The scent of earth
into the sky.

in this world there is nothing
But flowers, A wild garden in bloom to welcome you.  Each heart,

waiting in their own season
To toss the seeds of your golden sunlight,
everywhere they wish to see you.

– jeffrey vionito

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