The Autumn of Our Discontent

It’s often said by many that Arizona lacks seasons. This isn’t true. Take now, for instance. I can tell beyond doubt that Fall has arrived…at long last. How can I tell? The mornings have a slight biting chill to them. I walk out my front door, take a breath and think, “Huh, it must be getting cold somewhere.” And flowers look happy all by themselves. I can relax for a whole day without worrying they might die from my neglect. And I crave soup…even chile…something to make me break a sweat, a bodily function I’ve spent all summer getting intimate with. And there’s driving.

I know the seasons have shifted when I swear more in my car.

Is it the Seasonal Affected Disorder (SAD…yes, that’s what it’s called. Aren’t doctors hilarious.) that haunts me whenever the sun slings low in the sky? Perhaps. But I blame Winter Visitors (aka Snow Birds), the hoards who flee the winter that has already descended on Iowa, Ohio, Michigan…all of Canada. They migrate here before my week-long Fall season is even half-over and flood the streets. They tote along their regional traffic rules—yield on green, weave between lanes whenever it strikes your fancy, apply left turn signal a minimum of five miles before your anticipated turn—and in response, I swear and shake my fist…and maybe, just for a tiny moment, I get nostalgic for summer.

p.s. When I’m feeling down, I find solace in cheerful authors, like Albert Camus, who once said, “Autumn is a second spring, when every leaf is a flower.” Or Kafka, who no doubt year-round asked himself, “What am I doing here in this endless winter?”

Fall  flowers

Fall flowers and our Happy Jack smiling in the morning sun

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Weather Report

Just returned from the southern hemisphere where winter is waning into spring: high seas, cold winds and blossoms just starting to open on the fruit trees. I came home to a late summer storm: streets flooded, thunder scaring the dog and my daughter’s school closed for the day due to the weather. A Rain Day. That’s a first and she’s in her last year in high school. The rain gods are stirred up all over the world. Hurricane Norbert even dropped some much needed moisture on parched California.

So, in the hour it took to drop my son at school and get home (usually 20 minutes tops), I rolled down the windows and shuffled my seventies playlist. First song: Allman Brothers “Ain’t Wastin’ Time No More,” with its lyrics about hurricanes and pouring rain, followed by Hot Tuna’s “Water Song.” I love it when small things seem in sync with the larger forces of nature.

The Pacific calmed enough on the last day to get a quick freezing swim in.

The Pacific calmed enough on the last day in Australia to get a quick freezing swim in. That’s not me with the stream-lined free style stroke. I’m the one in the foreground recovering from the shock of the dive in. The pool fills in high seas or high tide and is used on days like this by a group of old polar bear men and strangers desperate to taste salt water.

 

 

For the Love of a Tree

Anyone who has been in a high school creative writing class knows one snapshot tells multiple stories. The image below could be a tragedy in the way it conveys the tenuous grasp humans seem to have on the natural world. Like in a Shakespearean tragedy, no one is left standing on this dreary stage, except that annoying guy who emerges from behind the curtain in the end to say “alas.” If I tell the story of this picture as a tragedy, I have to be the annoying guy.

No thanks.

I’m much more fond of love stories, dark and funny ones that reveal the length a person will go for the love of another…person, usually. This image tells a story of the love one guy (okay, so I see this character as a guy. I’m fascinated by man love) has for a tree, the length he  will go to sustain a relationship with his beloved long after everyone else can see it’s over. Friends will come by and shake their heads. Some might say “perhaps it’s time to think about…you know…getting another…tree.”

He’ll tell these heartless friends to get the hell out of his yard. Then he’ll pat the foliage that he’s lovingly trained around the dead palm’s stump and mumble things like “don’t listen to them. They don’t know you like I know you.”

Ah, love.

And, yes, I can hear the theme song to Love Story playing faintly in my head right now.

And, yes, I can hear the theme song to Love Story playing faintly in my head right now.

 

Cities as Habitats of Trees.

Every plant has a story to tell. This string of words drifted into my mind as I drove home this morning after dropping my daughter at school. I emailed the sentence to myself at a stoplight, before it had a chance to drift away as quietly as it had entered my thoughts. I can’t stop thinking about plants, trees in particular. I’ve spent the last four days surrounded by thousands of landscape architects and as I drove along the wide arterial, I noticed the trees more than I normally do. This is noteworthy, because I normally spend most of my drive-time noticing trees.

This five-lane road is so vast no desert or exotic species can reach across far enough to mingle canopies with the neighboring trees on the other side. And any that try have rectangles the size of city buses pruned out of them for their efforts. Still, the trees seemed bigger this morning, more a part of the street than they had appeared last week. Landscape architects have that effect on people’s perceptions. They remind us that trees matter. It was landscape architects who at one time or another bent over a drafting table (or in front of a computer screen) and decided what trees to use on the streets I drive down each and every day. I’m grateful to have chosen a career path that surrounds me with landscape architects and those aspiring to this profession. They remind me to notice trees.

In one of the talks I attended during the 2012 ASLA National Meeting and Expo that was in Phoenix this weekend, the panel discussion turned to the importance of the woods as places for children to roam and play. A member of the audience seemed to favor going out of the city to enter the woods.  “The woods can be in the city,” said Walter Hood, a panelist, professor and principal of Hood Studio in Oakland, a place named for its trees. “There are things beneath our feet,” he added. I thought of Whitman and the essays I’ve been posting on this blog. That’s it. That’s what needs to be remembered and celebrated, what lies beneath our feet even in cities…earth.  It’s what often gets forgotten by urban dwellers. Trees remind us of this.

At another presentation about urban planning and design in Chihuahua, Mexico, I was reminded that even when thinking at a scale as big as a city one can make small changes that ripple out and up to meet the grander schemes of urban designers. “It starts in our own garden,” said Gabriel Diaz Montemayor, an assistant professor and partner for LABOR Studio, “the beautiful can be small.” I thought of Emily Dickinson and how much poetry spilled from her in response to her own garden. Or how the sight of one tree can be enough to lift my mind from mundane thoughts.

On my way to the conference on the last day, I pulled over to check my camera battery before committing to the freeway on-ramp towards Phoenix. As I reached for my purse, I looked up and saw a mesquite tree sprawling across the lawn of an office park across the road from where I had stopped. I have lived in this town for nearly twenty years yet had never turned down this particular street. It is an unremarkable road or so I thought before I saw this tree.

“Why are there trees I never walk under
But large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?”
Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Green Room

I didn’t know the name for it at the time, but my dream bedroom growing up was a courtyard. When I spoke of it, I would describe how the ceiling could be pushed aside like a sheet and open the room to the sky. Or how the floor was made of earth, so plants could grow free from the confines of pots. I would sleep in a hammock draped from trees. Of course, my favorite story book was Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are. I wanted my room to sprout like Max’s, only more so. His was a tidy forest full of unruly monsters. My imaginary bedroom had walls built to keep out the monsters while I slept. I still suggest cutting holes in the concrete floor slab of my home from time to time to plant a garden. My husband, a practical man, usually counters with bugs, knowing he can keep the discussion brief and in his favor if I am made to think about bugs. “Besides, the plants prefer living outside,” he’d add, knowing I always go along with any plan a plant would prefer. It’s true too. Air-conditioned desert houses make lousy plant habitats.

So instead we’ve built a courtyard in the front of our ranch style house with a floor cobbled from the old driveway concrete. When we ran out of our supply, a neighbor let us pick through the remains of his old driveway before trucking it off to the dump. The trees just outside the courtyard have been extending farther each year, fashioning a ceiling from their canopies that fills with leaves each spring and shades the court and then drops the foliage in winter to let the slant sun in. A better system then the sheet I imagined as a kid. Unlike my dream bedroom, this garden court has walls only three feet high, enough to hide the cars parked on the street and give the plants shelter. The fountain echoes against these low walls, masking the traffic that hums along a busy street nearby. We built a wall and bench from river rock unearthed when we tore up the drive, remnants of a landscape design buried under sixty years of dust. When those stones ran out, another neighbor let us quarry his fake dry stream that ran through his front yard in exchange for trimming his tree. I’d revise the old edict twice quoted in Robert Frost’s poem “Mending Wall” to say that good gardens make good neighbors.

My childhood dream bedroom emerged from an early love of plants, a desire to make my room into a habitat for things with roots. Perhaps that’s the attraction, the roots. How plants, for the most part, figure ways to stay put. A few species drift about in water, but most plants anchor themselves to the earth and then make do with what comes their way. I admire that level of commitment, especially in trees since they outlive everyone. The oldest living thing on earth is a tree, the ancient bristlecone pines that cling to the rugged slopes of the Inyo range in Eastern California. Methuselah, the eldest in this forest of ancients is thought to be nearly 5,000 years old. Groves of clonal trees, vegetation’s version of the Borg, have had their DNA traced back twice that long, but as single living things the bristlecones take the longevity prize.

The last time I had a chance to walk among these old trees, I carried my daughter on my hip. I was making the final field visits while finishing my book A Land Between and had brought my daughter since she was still nursing. My husband had built a corral of sorts in the back of my truck to keep her from crawling off while I wrote in the field. It might have worked had she not just learned to scramble out of her crib and been actively seeking any and all opportunities to hone her free-climbing skills. When I carried her along the bristlecone trail, she waved at each old tree we passed. Much more social than I can ever hope to be, my daughter recognized a life akin to her own in these trees and so greeted them as friends.

That was nearly fifteen years ago, a blink for Methuselah. I’m more treelike these days, tending to linger in one place and make do. It’s my daughter now who conjures her own dreamscapes, one’s far away in exotic places like Sweden, where unbeknownst to her the oldest clonal tree, a spruce named Old Tjikko, has lived for nearly 10,000 years. My daughter has outgrown waving hello to old plants, adolescents have far more subtle greeting gestures, but it gives me comfort to know she dreams of places friendly to trees nonetheless.

on a day before the dichondra decided it was too hot, image by me

Ungodly Blooms

A benefit to waking early―not farmer early, but night owl who has to pee early, which this morning meant 7:45―is getting to see the Easter lily cactus blooms, a lovely surprise especially since it’s mid-September. The weather is turning towards cool―again not Vermont cool, just late summer mid elevation desert cool, so low 80s―and I’ve decided to drink my morning coffee in the front court garden. I forgot to put on my glasses before walking outside and am too sleepy to fetch them, so I don’t expect to notice anything. I sit down and am about to settle into the quiet blur of waking my brain when I see the pink blooms. I knew they were coming since the buds emerge slowly over a matter of days, but I still gasped at first sight.

The Easter lily cactus is so called for its inclination to bloom at Easter time. I think mine is a pagan. It sends out flowers with complete disregard for the Christian holy calendar. It does have a habit of putting out three blooms at a time, a nod to the Catholic Trinity perhaps or just good design sense, following the rule of threes (though never fives for this particular plant). I bought it during a macro photography class I took in 2009, right around Easter. The class met to shoot pictures at a plant nursery and I found this cactus covered with flowers and spent the rest of the morning stuffing my macro lens into the blooms. The least I could do was take it home afterwards. Nurseries coddle plants so they look their best.  I brought the cactus home and it somehow knew rules in this new garden were loose. One year it put out tiny ragged flowers, each petal serrated like soft pink knives. This year, I think in response to all the rain we’ve had this summer, it’s opened up multiple times, almost aligned to summer solstice and fall equinox. Had it been more on top of it, it’d be downright Wiccan.

I credit exuberant blooms to either attentive gardening or imminent death. Not a coddler by nature, I’m concerned for the cactus. All these flowers might be the plant’s swan song, especially since it is also pushing out pups, small versions of itself that appear tenuously attached to the larger arms and could easily brush off and tangle in the fur of a hairy beast and then drop off elsewhere to make a life of their own. The only hairy beasts in my garden are the stray cats that live in the sewer drain at the end of the street. They frequent my front yard, lounging in the grass like miniature lions on the savanna, and leave sad piles of bird feathers on the lawn. They also spray smelly cat musk by my front door and drink from the courtyard fountain. Ours is a relationship of wary tolerance and while they lay about like they own the place I doubt one will ever leap up onto the wall where I keep the Easter lily cactus and give the plant one of those friendly side rubs cats use to get people to pet them.

So the cactus may be singing to no one. Except me and my camera. Click click, RIP. My eulogy for it might go like this: I remember your surprising flowers more than your otherwise quiet patience all the days you waited for just the right signals to bloom. I apologize for my narrow attention, but in this regard I’m not much different from a bee.

The Trinity of Blooms and a Bee by me

Notes from Travels Abroad

It’s been raining on and off all night. The greens in the backyard have lost their usual muting of dust and I can see how the citrus leaves, the grass leaves run through the spectrum from yellow into near black. It’s too early and cloudy for the sun. I could be elsewhere, some coastal town or against a tall mountain, a place where water feels more at home. Like England, except the desert heat, hangover from yesterday’s sun, still lingers.

Like most houses built last century here in the desert, mine lacks rain gutters, so water forms a drip line from the eaves, then taps a melody onto the ground. Each surface sounds a different note. I’ve opened all the doors and windows to let the music in and to pretend the breeze feels cool, the kind of air that shocks the skin.

I’d make a terrible Buddhist. Be here now is just a stepping off point for me, a spring board,  or any other thing that catapults people from where they stand. Perhaps that’s why I’ve come around to believe in the solace of nature nearby. It has the capacity to transport me from where I am. Of course it helps to have traveled beyond the back wall, to have seen England (great now that silly children’s rhyme about France and underpants is in my head. Never underestimate the power of rhyme, whose force is not surprising since the human brain evolved for thousands of years without the written word and spoken words are easier to remember if they have an even cadence and rhyme. Now I can ponder the wonders of evolution all day to the beat of this playground ditty. Fantastic.). Where was I? Oh yeah, England.

I’m thinking of England, because one of my essays was just posted on a new site hosted in London, called The New Nature. Mine is called The Quiet of Trees. Next time I have the good fortune to travel to London, I’ll have a hoard of essays gleaned from this lovely website to help me plan the trip.

Squirrel Heart Beats

Have you ever wondered how your life might have turned out if you had done one thing differently? Of course you have. You’re human after all and we tend to ponder what ifs. My what ifs are rarely huge. Like this morning while driving my daughter to school I couldn’t help but notice the intricate patterns of mesquite tree shadows on the gymnasium walls as I pulled into the school parking lot. What if, I wondered, while turning onto the road and heading back home, what if I had gotten glasses as a kid instead of waiting until my first year in college? What more would I have noticed? What would that have done to shape my view of the world? Then my favorite George Eliot line from Middlemarch came to mind:

“If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.”

As a young adult I spent a lot of time being pissed off at the things I missed during my tween and teen years― regular eye exams, parents in town, dinner. Now I’m not so sure. For instance, what if I had worn glasses and could at twelve see every leaf on every tree with discrete clarity? Even now my stimulus filters are scant, but as a kid they were more inadequate at sifting through sensory inputs. If I had worn glasses all the extra visual data might have made my head explode.

I remember the day I picked up my first pair of glasses, how it felt to ride my bike along the tree-lined streets, every leaf visible, each break in the canopy a sharp shaft of light. It was like I had spent my life reading Joyce’s Finnegans Wake and was now handed Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. The thick clarity of the world around me distracted me so much I could barely keep pedaling. I had to stop many times between the optometrist’s office and my apartment just to study the trees.

So perhaps it was for the best that I lived my entire adolescence in a blur. Those years have so many more squirrel heart beats than any other time in one’s life, the roar might have been my undoing.

My favorite image of the many I’ve taken of my front garden courtyard, the only as seen in my son’s eye. He also wears glasses.

The Auguries of Innocence

It’s my son’s first day of fifth grade, his last year of elementary school, and I just dropped him in the drop-off line and he walked in without hesitation, just a few neck twitches and head bobs to indicate nerves. It seems so long since I had to sit beside him each morning while he made little movies on my phone instead of venturing out into the playground with all the other kids. I’d still be there standing by the door as he lined up and marched into Mrs G’s half-day kindergarten class, his second go at kindergarten after the disastrous try at Our Lady of Perpetual Stress.

Instead I’m home sitting in the front garden courtyard trying to enjoy a little outside time before the heat descends. It’s already too hot, but I’m out here anyhow. There is a romance in the idea of writing in the garden, letting the words tumble out to the cadence of fountain burble, but in truth I’ve been having hot flashes and any spike in nervous energy sets one off. Just now the admission that the reality of a romantic writing session in the garden like I’m Dorothy Wordsworth scribbling in her journal, her famous writer brother at her elbow, the falseness of it sends my body into a flood of heat and sweat.

Still, it’s lovely the way the slant morning sun illuminates the jacobinia leaves, how thick and tropical these shrubs look despite the desert climate. I can almost ignore the airplanes that roar in and out of Sky Harbor or the workers next door who just arrived to bang metal pipes together. Sound torments the moment, the delusion of the moment, but I’m going to sit here and write and pretend for a few more words that I am Dorothy Wordsworth. It is 1803 and William and I just arrived in the Lakes District to amble about in the glow of the countryside. I’ll scout the dirt roads for ordinary travelers, a fisherman perhaps, for William to build a poem around. One of the workers drops a metal pipe onto the concrete drive and I’m back to being me. Sirens sound in the distance. It’s hot even in the shade of the mesquite that drapes over the courtyard. I’m thinking about ways to club the workers with the seemingly infinite supply of pipes in the back of their truck.

I sit out here to try and disprove the long-standing American myth of wilderness promulgated by Thoreau and Muir, this idea that one can’t find nature until he or she has first lost humanity. Whitman didn’t believe that. Neither did the Wordsworths, though they romanticized the poor, the country bumpkins, turning them into images of virtue, editing out poverty or making it seem honorable to suffer. Somewhere a truck is backing up, beep, beep, beep…Am I wrong about where wilderness exists? Do people, as Muir argued, ruin a true connection between the individual and wilderness? Is the wilderness experience only for lone wanderers like him? Thoreau edited out humanity to make the short walk into the town of Concord seem farther, which in turn made his abode by Walden Pond seem wilder. And nature writing enthusiasts have edited his work further in anthologies to make his rather tame countryside version of wilderness more aligned with the rugged lands in the West. What about that great insight of William Blake in his poem Auguries of Innocence, especially the opening lines?

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

This seems to imply a wilderness that can exist in small spaces, like my front courtyard garden, but then the poem goes on to rail against humanity, how each attempt to wrestle nature into domestic control results in the silencing of angels. To anger an ox is to be spurned forever by the love of any woman. Who wants that? Blake singles out war, greed, licentiousness and most of all doubt as reasons human beings stray from God and subsequently denigrate the natural world. “He who Doubts from what he sees/Will ne’er believe, do what you Please,” writes Blake, which seems to me to mean that all the ways in which people destroy nature that Blake called out prior to these lines are problems of lack of faith. The idea that God put all this nature on earth for humans to do what they please is a flawed interpretation of God’s will, so Blake seems to say. Rather consider the innocent vision of children, and damned be those who don’t, as he warns:

He who mocks the Infant’s Faith
Shall be mock’d in Age & Death.
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall ne’er get out.
He who respects the Infant’s faith
Triumph’s over Hell & Death.

Jack hammers in my neighbor’s back yard win. And another hot flash has made the warming morning air feel like a sauna right after a fellow naked steamer has poured cold water on the hot lava rocks. I’m going in, which for me has never held inverse truth of Muir’s observation that going out is really going in. Going in is not going out for me. The door will shut and even a view from the window won’t connect me to the dove that just now is tipping its head to drink from the fountain. Romantic, yes, as though it’s sent from Dorothy herself. The automatic sprinklers just clicked on and drenched my laptop. I’ll take that as a sign to go inside to ponder the meaning of wilderness further and wait for school to let out.

hands of me and my son, image by me
BTW all moms have an extra set of hands for just such occasions

Auguries of Innocence
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.
A dove house fill’d with doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions.
A dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State.
A Horse misus’d upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear.
A Skylark wounded in the wing,
A Cherubim does cease to sing.
The Game Cock clipp’d and arm’d for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright.
Every Wolf’s & Lion’s howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul.
The wild deer, wand’ring here & there,
Keeps the Human Soul from Care.
The Lamb misus’d breeds public strife
And yet forgives the Butcher’s Knife.
The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that won’t believe.
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbeliever’s fright.
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belov’d by Men.
He who the Ox to wrath has mov’d
Shall never be by Woman lov’d.
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spider’s enmity.
He who torments the Chafer’s sprite
Weaves a Bower in endless Night.
The Caterpillar on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mother’s grief.
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,
For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar.
The Beggar’s Dog & Widow’s Cat,
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.
The Gnat that sings his Summer’s song
Poison gets from Slander’s tongue.
The poison of the Snake & Newt
Is the sweat of Envy’s Foot.
The poison of the Honey Bee
Is the Artist’s Jealousy.
The Prince’s Robes & Beggars’ Rags
Are Toadstools on the Miser’s Bags.
A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for Joy & Woe;
And when this we rightly know
Thro’ the World we safely go.
Joy & Woe are woven fine,
A Clothing for the Soul divine;
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The Babe is more than swaddling Bands;
Throughout all these Human Lands
Tools were made, & born were hands,
Every Farmer Understands.
Every Tear from Every Eye
Becomes a Babe in Eternity.
This is caught by Females bright
And return’d to its own delight.
The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow & Roar
Are Waves that Beat on Heaven’s Shore.
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of death.
The Beggar’s Rags, fluttering in Air,
Does to Rags the Heavens tear.
The Soldier arm’d with Sword & Gun,
Palsied strikes the Summer’s Sun.
The poor Man’s Farthing is worth more
Than all the Gold on Afric’s Shore.
One Mite wrung from the Labrer’s hands
Shall buy & sell the Miser’s lands:
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole Nation sell & buy.
He who mocks the Infant’s Faith
Shall be mock’d in Age & Death.
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall ne’er get out.
He who respects the Infant’s faith
Triumph’s over Hell & Death.
The Child’s Toys & the Old Man’s Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons.
The Questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to Reply.
He who replies to words of Doubt
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out.
The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesar’s Laurel Crown.
Nought can deform the Human Race
Like the Armour’s iron brace.
When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow.
A Riddle or the Cricket’s Cry
Is to Doubt a fit Reply.
The Emmet’s Inch & Eagle’s Mile
Make Lame Philosophy to smile.
He who Doubts from what he sees
Will ne’er believe, do what you Please.
If the Sun & Moon should doubt
They’d immediately Go out.
To be in a Passion you Good may do,
But no Good if a Passion is in you.
The Whore & Gambler, by the State
Licenc’d, build that Nation’s Fate
The Harlot’s cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old England’s winding Sheet.
The Winner’s Shout, the Loser’s Curse,
Dance before dead England’s Hearse.
Every Night & every Morn
Some to Misery are Born.
Every Morn & every Night
Some are Born to sweet Delight.
Some are Born to sweet Delight,
Some are born to Endless Night.
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro’ the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to Perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.
God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in the Night,
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day.