Sheets of glory are the clouds this morning.
And, like a lake’s iciness, God has spread them to perfection with his thumb, so cosmic.
Their hazy veil of a background sets the sun to a fuzz, and the slow march of the stratus alters the holy rays as they see fit.
These rays….Oh these rays!
They’ll escape through any crack or sliver they can find, to shed warmth and impress every creature to a name.
A three-birded silhouette is the only interruption of the radiance.
I do not mind at all.
Old Man’s chill still, indeed, will possess its firm frost grip on our beings but, for unknown reasons, chose to alleviate the vice this day.
For, so humid and sweet is the breeze, in its brief gust, which temporarily whiffs me to Eden.
From the Soul,
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