I walk at the sidewalk’s edge, relishing the low heaps of fallen glory where each footfall whispers His presence.

Beneath the autumn-garbed trees, I am surrounded by splendor, Presence. I step softly on a golden carpet, my little path roofed with the same color. Bits of glory fall silent all around, caressing as they land on hair or whisper past shoulders.

I want to stoop down, to examine each leaf, the marks of red and gold left by the touch of its Creator in this cycle of death and new life.

It makes me sad, somehow, the bags of leaves so quickly raked, sidewalks blown clear by men with motors strapped to their bodies, discarded splendor blown off as useless trash.

Maybe this is why I now write, I who for most of my life have been so private. I don’t want too quickly to throw away the bits of glory fallen from the hand of the Creator. I’d rather let people walk through the messy beauty, feeling the freedom of space, the hope of new life after death, hearing His whispers with each footfall. I long for my life to be a path fit for the king on the donkey, and with wonder I realize that with every leaf which falls before His hand, every death in preparation for new life, He is creating a beautiful carpet on which He may enter. If only we do not too quickly sweep away the falling glory!