When you were a tiny voice
you were easy to ignore.
Later you were a blister,
a chronic pain,
a nerve that ignited other nerves into chaos.
But I liked your spunk,
liked the way you two-stepped around the house wet
and barefoot, dragging in grass from the soles of your feet.
I get it: you don’t want to live on your knees.
But the sacred whispers grow louder,
until I begin to dance,
until the sweat pools into salt crystals,
until I cry uncle
And plead for mercy.
If you’re interested in more thoughts on grace, read my book Tao Flashes. Or visit me at http://www.facebook.com/taoflashes or on twitter @taoflashes.