The silent puddle on the street after rainfall,
wisps of breeze striking up the tiniest ripples,
then calm, as only the peace of God compares to.
Perfection is held there, the depths where the road
yellow lines are muffled to brown, a stairway
process, there is a hint of the infinite.
Explosive force, being liable to drenching,
cars swing exquisitely close to, but skirt,
as if good will controlled that event of nature.
The closeness of God, ah, that tests faith so,
the stillness of that puddle underscores, maintains,
and shocks the hearing of the soul, opens its eyes.