Ohhhh the glory of harvest! Such magnificence is nearly unbearable, in all her shy, unbeckoned potentiality, hiding behind skirts of self-imposed obscurity, that blinding smoke of oblivion.
In this moment, what I see is that God is utterly, terribly beautiful, and this thing of magnificence will indeed by rendered to full glory by his hand.
That glory is, in fact, a gracious gift of his own reflection, and even for this broken image I can but weep in humble adoration.
So weep I will.
But tears cannot drown the laughter for visions of fruit and flowers in full bloom, which intoxicate and fulfill the innermost yearning of our kind, however dormant those cravings may have lain.
Seeds may be yet sprouting, branches may be yet budding, but what is time?
I see my sister last night. Others call her moon and generally forget her. Parking lot lamps vie for my praise, laughing and thanking some dim-witted clouds to blanket a chorus of stars.
I wink at their shallow splendor, shrug at what glory burns brightly on a short wick. Sister reigns far above, far brighter, far before and for far beyond these insolent slaves of man. She is patient and congenial, appreciating my quiet acknowledgment of her beautiful smile.
Sister hides waves of chiming laughter behind that sad grin. She knows darkness and watches evil rage rampantly across the earth. Unwillingly witness to unending atrocity, she in reverence and deep sorrow remains silent.
The laughter will be unleashed, because sister knows atrocity is not truly unending. She knows the glory which overcomes darkness, beaming with joy for sheer vision of his distant existence.
How awesome are both the fruit and the flower, that I tremble in wonder at the deeds of the potter.