Spring does not run roughshod
The glad crocus neither imposes nor insists
Or fears that April might not come
Opening to the inevitable, this beauty is made of allowances
A whisper on the lips of a girl

waking each morning to question,
"Is today the day?"
If not, rest
In time
In time

Midnight never once denied the dawn
And clung to the leaves, the levies, the bicycles splayed on the lawn
The dark inside an opening suitcase gives over
Again and again
This is grace, it seems to me now

Write this to my heart, softly
As a mother lovingly to her child repeats
Until repetition is no longer required
And the song sings itself

About the Poet

Paige Ryan is a writer, producer, yoga teacher and lucid dreamer living in Los Angeles. Her writing has appeared in "Grace and Grace Notes," "Birmingham Magazine," "Inspire Me Magazine" and "Quad Literary Arts Journal." Current inspirations include songwriting, yin forces, Billy Collins, excessive verbosity and parking lots.