I looked into the January sun
and I saw there only a blinding light,
not the face of God nor of his angels,
but a mysterious power I could not
comprehend - ineffable and divine.
I looked down at the sunlit dappled path
where crumpled leaves, discarded victims
of Autumn’s shedding, every vein awash
with molten gold, lay beneath my feet
as if they were a carpet for a queen.
The tarmac was ablaze like a mosaic
of tiny precious stones, brilliant and new
in that miracle of transmuted light;
delicate webs glistened on rusty iron,
frail witness to everlasting beauty.
Thus was the metamorphosis made clear,
mighty strength and small loveliness now
become one along the path where I walked
beneath the burning celestial globe,
God immanent in all his creation.
My whole being, body and soul, suffused
with love and joy, to Him I gave my thanks,
not only for the sun’s shimmering fire,
but for small things, delicate and humble,
made glorious at his gentle command.