i liken grace
with how my mother tends her garden,
softly speaking to the birds she feeds,
reproaching their greed when it came to her flowers.
her laugh i liken to chirps of happy animals
fed generously in her yard,
her trading her berries for some company during prayer,
the compromise showing now for love of the easy peace.
what i know of love and strength
i learned in my mother’s garden,
in the bend of the grapevine from the strain of its fruits,
and the stringy support she gave,
a love so ardent.
Garbanzo Bae 