The Arithmetic of Grace

A shadow at midday
Abject terror piercing through crowds
There’s more than one way
To feel alone

The slow, sad ache
Of light edging away
Like sand through
The glass slipping

The corrosive among us
Immoral
Specter of self-sufficiency
A rusting pretense separates all

Machined down
We don’t touch anymore
Passing by, reduced
Down in the deepening dark

What light breaks
Shines in through the cracks
Stopping, reversing
The rot’s rout

Great enough
To stall the spirits’ stalk
Bring eyes, hands
To meet, to mend

Dividing spoil, multiplying joy
Only the arithmetic of grace
Can see and ‘summate
Solitary souls

This poem was written while reflecting on Isaiah 9:2-3, a quotation from Arthur Miller (found in this article), and the liturgy and prompts in Every Moment Holy‘s 2023 Advent Journal. The sketch above from the cover of Miller’s Death of a Salesman for Penguin Classics.