June 24, 2005
7:30 PM
Alone at the reservoir.
There’s that light
playing in the leaves again.
I suppose it has nothing better to do
than laze about the greens,
making what was dull, translucent,
full of radiance.
Leaves are magical...
But only when the light
hits them just so,
or the wind blows through and opens
possibilities of voice and music.
The magic of leaves
lies in their response to light,
their obedience to the wind...
And most of all,
in the perception of one
who finds eternity
in every little thing.
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