I didn’t notice the trees hard-etching the empty November sky as vividly last year. My eyes were elsewhere, and my body a year less tired, less worn, and yet less stripped of the weight that gathers in those long blind years when we feel most wise. Still in today’s lingering glance, I find hope, a tiny shard of vision— when the earth turns around to this place again, when the trees release their finery once more to dance, arms stretched wide to our wild, joyful God— then may my sight be sharper still, and each year grow clearer until my eyes cloud and mind grows clogged, rough sparks jumping their synaptic tracks, and the swift and silent link between flesh and soul is, for a while, a bumbling object in the way. And still, then still— as flesh withers, and all metaphors melt— not still, but then may I most truly see.
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