Grace (a poem)

Your shame is otherwise.
These, your sins,
arrayed before the world,
pose no obstacle.
Your shadows present no predicament.
Nor the past any problem.
You cannot ask any question
or harbor any doubt
that will not be met with a kiss.
A gentle breeze will blow away your ashes,
your guilt too insubstantial to remain.

There is no confession you need make,
no crime of yours I have not witnessed.
Between us, there are no surprises.

You are mistaken to assume
that secrets are your substance.

Though you did not know it, 
you have always been safe.