Song on the bench

Every day He will be wonderful
and He will be wonderful every summer night,
while street lamps will clothe leaves in gold;

Every hour He will be
in the smell of newly-mown grass,
in crickets and waters and silence.
In lonely bikes ringing
and in stars.

O good my Lord, how could the day not come
when sky will know exactly why it's blue,
when every single leaf will be, will be
engraved in the palm of Your hands
as if the only one?