The Secret Place

The flowers of grass open to
my dull tread tracking
through the dew of grace,
rain of tears, flow of blood
into the sun of your beaten face.

I step into the welcome
of the wind
and pass over to the unknown
where I am desired
beckoned by beauty, the beckoning
terror of sheer beauty.

I return changed,
witness to the secret place,
bearing the wounds
of beauty’s face.