I see Good New in midnight's aurora
Evangelizing the sky with jeweled waves of mystery
Her silent witness cries Glory!
Glory to God in the highest heavens.
My faith is restored by the morning doves,
Who know the meaning of a winter sun’s rising;
Christening each day with flutter and wing,
Offering gifts of twig, seed, and feather.
Even the dust, celestial and hovering,
Hearkens angels in the slanting gold of afternoon light—
Seeming to hint at a truth half guessed,
Yet wholly immanent:
You have come.
You will come again.
And with my own eyes, I will see my salvation.