The Secret Place

The flowers of grass open to
my dull tread tracking
through the dew of grace,
rain of tears, flow of bloodshed
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 returned changed,
witness to the secret place,
bearing the wounds
of beauty’s face.