These glorious days, we walk.

The trees are all alight, from every angle:  behind, before, beneath. I go eyes down mostly, like Mammon in Paradise Lost, but for jeweled leaves not riches; for a time I remember to gaze up at torching trees, then down again at strewn path, and so on.

I talk to my baby, telling him how beautiful this world is. I will tell him how terrible it can be, but not yet. For now it is gem-like and wonderful only, light glancing from all parts.

I gather the paper silhouettes that have danced suspended by one tiny point of stem, have flown shivering out, away, perhaps up, then down, and finally lie lightly on grass and path.

It is a fruitless gesture. They will never be as lovely as they are now, but–though I know it–my marveling eyes make me stoop, and think “This one! this is the most beautiful” over and over, not knowing what I will do with them but wanting to pull that beauty to me.

Light on leaf and branch is food for ordinary times bereft of color, when heart and eye wish for more and cannot find it.