Again the short sweet walk across the courtyard
Whispers sublimity to my soul.
Again the soft spit of rain against my upturned face,
Spitting compassion, not disrespect,
Again the drab dark grass,
Again the spotlit maples,
Their adolescent leaves drooping sharp against the white wash of color.
Why, Father, do you taunt us with touches of heaven?
Why do you show us what we must die to obtain?
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
Yet in my flesh shall I see God.
I rail at the glimpse
And yet I ever yearn for another.
Long live Inspiration!