God has a crayon in his box called Light.
He holds that crayon in the sun’s fingers, and
As the sun tips the brow of Ridge Street, He colors the
Facing treetops, just the tops,
 that color – Light!
And their day’s singing, swaying work
Has begun. The trunks, though,
In the ravine’s depths,
Are still in yesterday,
Or last night,
Sleeping purple and
Blue sleep.
The Divine Colorer
Lights them in His
Own time.
He accomplishes so much with
One ball of incandescence and His infinity.