Meeting the morning

Every morning - at precisely 8:50am I pass by the tree. The maple's leaves exude deep reds, gold and orange. It grows quietly in the midst the of brick walkways of a bustling campus, shielded from sunlight for the better part of the day by the looming library. Yet, every morning, without fail, the sun pushes its way through the enormous surrounding evergreens and library edifice to cast an eerie glow on the maple. No human words exist in any language to adequately paint this glowing masterpiece. This tree - this everstanding creation - is glorified and in turn glorifies the creator . . . by simply being. It does nothing to attract the sun - day after day it stands, planted and rooted in the soil, serving its tree purpose. For approximately 10 minutes each day - perhaps as a reward, or perhaps as a call to beckon all to behold it - the sun pours its golden rays upon this unwavering tree. Pure light plays through the branches to bathe the leaves. Daily I am drawn to it, captivated by it's ethereal beauty. Mostly I walk by, casting longing looks in its direction . . . a faint smile plays on my lips. Yet, today . . . Today I sit with it - basking in the glorietta warmth, allowing the light to overtake me. I am held there for a while, silently, under this enigma. Golden fingers gently touch my hair, graze my face and dispel the coolness of the morning. It is a warm, luminescent blanket that enshrouds me. The maple and I - we sit. Silent. Stoic. Calm. And I do nothing. And I am warm.