Her Name Was Grace
Her Name Was Grace
Sensitivity is an art.
It is not a learned skill,
nor shall practice convince anyone it exists.
An instinct of genetic making
but not necessarily a family trait.
A natural occurrence.
A human touch that leaves no print
on a butterflys wings
allowing it to enjoy its flight.
It is the worm dug up
from the black dirt.
Gently it coils in the palm of a hand
returned to the earth
where it may wiggle away.
It is the memory triggered
peering through fingers at yellow sunlight.
Its heat warms a hand
and casts shadows on the ground.
Trembling yet softly touching a face.
Every feature every flaw
draws a picture an image appears.
A tear is then felt
wiped away by a thumb.
A kiss on the forehead,
a gentle embrace.
The words I am sorry
whispered like a secret
so close to ones ear.
Her name was Grace
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