Late one afternoon on an early November day
I hiked along the Kettles, glad to be away.
I traveled to the south, warmed by step and sun alike.
To one side shadows deepened. On the other it was bright.
The ground was not yet frozen, giving stride a gentle role
And my spirit lifted gracefully as I gazed into a bowl.
When I looked off to the west I was suddenly surprised
By a fleeting glint of light that somehow caught my eye.
I stood in blanked amazement at the scene before me then,
Wondering over the delicate pattern. Had it always been?
Could I have lived for fifty years and never have been told?
The eye of God was watching me through gilded stems of gold.
By sheer coincidence and chemistry, the branches worked as one.
I saw the individual slant of twigs reflect the rays of sun.
There, in that faintly lit, gray orb of light, I could understand.
When walking softly in a wood, a halo follows man.
Muted voices, scream the silence
That echoes through the urban canyons.
Exploded eardrums, sound the rhythm
Of refugees without choices.
Singed eyelashes, brush the wind
Painted cheeks with streams of sadness.
Empty hearts, behold the crucible
Of dying dreams in the sleepless night.