A Subtle Witness Poem by Smoky Hoss

Of late, and from early,
I learn more and more
of less and less;
how a little
means a lot, and
a lot means little.
How the sky
born of nature
mingles with eternity,
not quite here,
not quite there;
birds move through
a motionless air
like grace
at God's fingertips;
the trees, burnt orange
stand resolute,
fired in falls
glorious furnace;
leaves skate downward and around,
in and out of the veil
covering a mysterious majesty.

Where was I before
and saw
what I now,
barely again, begin
to see?
When did I leave it all?
And when
have I returned?
How? - -
Leaving the leaving, now
I see,
This, all, was always
coming to me,
and I
to It.