Half awake, I read of a God powerful, wondrous, and beautiful. My mind wanders to thoughts of yesterweek, when I had convinced myself that I had no gift of poetry or inspired writing.

The rains come. As does the thunder. "You're missing it," they say. So I stop and sit at the windowsill. Lightning flashes; thunder rumbles around and through. The rain abates and I grab my camera.

Outside I go; Small Deer regards me and soon flees with Mother as I photograph the red leaves of the cherry tree, still dripping and glistening. By the mint plants, flattened by the earthward stream, a tiny cricket rests - soon again to try his unsuccessful leap.

And I think perhaps the poetry is there, yes, but hidden behind the wall of a heart that had forgotten gratitute for all the gifts that surround.

Peace fills and warms.

And somehow, I see the glory of God in a tiny moth, clinging to the basement door.