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.
