The sun on leaves, and wind
blowing through
the trees says
good morning,
you are holy
today.
How the wind speaks,
I do not
know,
how light or air are certain
I am
is beyond me,
but the sun, a mountain
rising, tells me
it is morning,
and the wind through dry rustling
leaves tells me,
it is autumn.
If all else I am told is true,
how then,
do I doubt?
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