by Abraham de la Torre
Forget is most unlikely relevant
a treatment to however similar
a trait. We hit and miss, remember and,
in earnest, fail to mark the moment, yet
with real regret. The heart is honest, its
mistake not a misstep, its normal beat
only derailed by inconsistencies
that keep perfection ever on its feet.
Does one prevail upon priorities
life has imposed and by the living chose
to set aright the present that the past
has muddled. Thankfully, up to a point
redeemable, up to a slight extent.
What makes exchanges worth their while is not
the price upon their packaging, the fuss
that went into the dilly-dallying nor
minds that presuppose giving is a thing.
Alas, the world suffices in its weight
of wit and wonder hardly finding time
for quiet from the thrill and thunder things
portray. The pause the hand proffers is pause
enough for either giver or the other
hand receiving. A communion. One
that twice blest the already-blessed gift,
the grace that comes with it and, to accept,
the grace of thankfulness in the receipt
and openness of heart commensurate
with each essential grace the other gave.
