Behold this mystery:
even on a rough night

this peace that cradles us,
this love that loves us,

this tenderness
that comes upon us.

—Steve Garnaas-Holmes

•••

And now—after weeks of smothering fog—
rain.

The heavens loosen their grip,
a muscled wind whipping the trees,

hurling last leaves to thirsty ground,
beginning to wash us clean,

If this keeps up as predicted, we’ll be
sodden in a few days, wetter than wet

for Christmas. But this, too, is part
of the mystery of how peace can come,

the way tenderness arrives amid the most
turbulent times. Perhaps it has been ever thus—

we are simply living through this
blinking moment of these too-short lives,

reeling from the horrible, the violent,
the rampant hostility deserved by no one.

Yet somehow peace cradles us.
Love loves us. We are forgiven.

We do not understand it, are not meant
to comprehend it, only to see that

the better angels of our nature continue
to rise within us. And it is gentle goodness

that we wish to embody, our arms
overflowing with bouquets

of good will toward all.