Grace

You know of course that you haven’t earned it.
For if you had, it would not be what it is:
Beauty of the candle after you’ve burned it,
The dark bird rising like smoke, always from ashes,
Remembrance of heat and light, describing itself
Invisibly upon the air of the mind,
That takes the life lived in a fury of self-
Love and remakes it into something that shined

So brightly that it might have been a star;
Instead of the candle you were burning at both ends.
And now the night grows black, wherever you are,
Except for the golden shimmer that descends
To the earth through miles of lonely outer space
And lights up your misspent life, with saving grace.