For hours we watch snowflakes
lifting, turning, playing in stillness.
From across the continent
you hear my torn cry,
rush in to catch me as I fall,
your broad arms,
the sack of me landing in them.
And in this moment we call perfection,
it is our mistakes that God has polished,
our tears of sorrow into jewel.
Now, Dear, I ask you.
Could it ever have been another way?
gwendalyn gilliam, incline village, 11.8.11