A Subtle Witness

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.