Woman of Grace...Woman of Pluck

The garden bench elevates us
over arching blackberry vines,
groaning under the burden of summer fruit.
Sitting side by side, we keep our voices low.
There is no need to speak loudly
in this cathedral of creation.

Long deep pauses, breathing in the cusp of a new season,
we speak softly of sisterhood, kinship,
awe for the natural world.

We dissolve into stillness,
embraced by rising ridges,
blanketed by dense woods,
anticipating their preoccupation with color.

Dropped in the middle like a shining diamond;
a small lake, shimmering
with late morning sun and gentle breezes.
As we sit, I notice the threads of her clothes,
sewn with hands of grace;
compare them to mine,
sewn with hands of pluck.

The snap of a twig draws my gaze to the north shore of the lake.

We are talking softly when she emerges from the woods;
delicate hooves testing the firmness of the bank.
Breath catches in my throat.
She turns her doe eyes to me,
hesitates for a moment
the slips her agile body into the water.

We watch, speechless as she swims,
her head majestic, her wake a ballet.
She turns to shore, mounts the bank
and vanishes into the woods

We exhale our collected breath.
Our eyes meet, spirits quiver in unison
sisters witnessing the Divine.