A certain, tender treasure beyond all else: golden sunlight on golden leaves murmur sweetly of Time’s perpetual circling, burning, burning, burning, just as we ought; made gentler, more gossamer, more delicate in infinite death, decay, and life anew. Do they think? Do they know? Does Creation hum, speckled—pied—conscious of His presence? Recoiling from the incarnate flame, I turn towards the vast, hollow expanse of barrenness, where I do not have to think, and hunch there, not before my gentle Lord, but before nothingness, and refuge from the flame, yearning for the divine, yet slipping away.
Sylvan light hides me away, or so I wish; clothe me in flowers, my Florizel—dance with me in the paradise away from lost Time. Can I not hide in the forested depths for a while? Just a moment, before Evil time—the sort that steals away prayer and traps me in that barren expanse once more— encroaches again. I wish I had time for the good sort of Time: the ever-cycling sort, slow and meditative. Each morning dawns mercifully, and each day slips away so, so subtly that I almost miss it. One day, I pray that He teaches me to live in His sort of Time… quiet, sylvan, constant.
Please refine me, O my Jesus. Make me willing to endure Your golden flame so I—speckled I—may shine forth with Your light. Teach me, Time, to live meditatively Like my Lord. There will, after all, be a day, A burning, sylvan, quiet day, in which I step out of this dark wood and into the light, to see the stars, and the great moon. The golden leaves, shining with His presence, yes, like these stars! will fall, and decay, and live again, and I will on this day, stand in the sylvan light and simply watch them, for hours and hours, and sigh, and realize that it is suddenly evening, and I have no place to be.