The sublimity of my being is small,
next to the sound and feel of rain,
or the flight of a bird,
or the dusty pastels of dawn.
It is not wholly akin to
the whispers of trees,
or the color of snow,
or the damp smell of spring.
I rightly bow to
the crunch of autumn leaves,
the salty taste of the ocean air,
and the long, lingering sunsets of summer.