all day long

the wind has been

scouring the trees;

now the lawn is thick

with bronzed leaves of oak,

tender yellow of maple,

wild red and orange

and byzantium of gum.

my nephew has

been practicing his

unseen movement,

a trick in which he

sidles by “invisible”

to the distracted,

unobservant eye.

how like the Spirit

Himself, i think,

to move with mystery

among the hearts

of men, unmarked

by all but those who

seek to see the face

of the Invisible.

how like the wind

that catches the

branches, showing

its nature by its effect:

how quickly topple

lofty trees; how gently

rustle spring-new

blossoms in the breeze.