The Merced



I used to think of mercy

as something stolid.

Somber.

A decree handed down by a judge

with judgment still hanging

in the eaves.

Until I stood on the banks

of the Merced

and beheld the wild torrent:

rushing

leaping

foaming

sparkling in the sun

racing with power

no judgment

no stolidity

no solemnity

wild beyond reason

wild beyond hope

wild with love

love as a force

love as a power

love untamed

judgment washed away

only the mercy remains

singing

dancing

living

in the sun.

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