Promise

The hills are brushed with green,
not spring, but the promise of spring
as grace is not God, but God’s promise.
Like streaks of gold in the eastern sky
before dawn. Like the murmur of surf
at ebb, before the turn, the return
of water to the land—like the echo
of thunder over the desert, awakening
buried seeds. The promise of rain.
The buried seeds of hope. A touch
of grace.