Imagine morning light
as a sheet,
coating all it touches,
offering a brief spotlight
to the magic of the ordinary,
causing one to pause
and wonder,
did the one who
imagined this building
stand here and see
a tin roof
playing with maple leaves
under a rose-orange
November
light?
This poem is so beautiful ... I can almost see myself standing on that tin roof under the November light ... maybe God can see himself that way too, in a million different places and times and seasons at once. :)
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