The vision first appeared where rays of light
embraced the leafy limbs of feral trees–
to him, an angel made of mud and might
and love, compelling him to bow on knees.
He felt an awe, inspired by depth divine,
the fire of herds of autumn stags afield,
the giddy joy of finest food and wine,
and hopeful dreams that only poets yield.
With arms flung wide he bore his open heart
to welcome in, embrace, absorb the light,
but felt instead the sacred host depart,
then cried in anguished prayer “Restore the sight!”
“Oh God, oh Earth, you made this love I feel.
For all our sakes, the vision must be real.”