The sunlight is honey
filtered through the sky
dripping onto my skin
like warm fingertips
of a loving Hand;
the wind whispers
what its touch suggests;
even the silence
is speaking to me;
"even in fire"
are words like a summer's evening;
the colors blue, green, yellow --
banners of the garden,
words of one voice of light --
joining in the symphony
of whispering, honeyed,
silent, flaming colors;
they unite in pronouncing
*one word*
whose utterance is the final hope of man:
I have heard you, I said;
"I wished to be known", He replied.
