Clouds of glory

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

--William Wordsworth from his poem

Ode: Intimations on Immortality

I was reminded of this poem this afternoon. I had been in the bathroom, really the only time during the day when I can be alone, and I had been reading.  I might have spent a bit more time in the bathroom than was actually required because I was enjoying what I was reading, but not that much extra.  I came out of the bathroom to this:

It is the stuffing from two couch cushions.  

Brandt and Blythe had emptied the cushions and were leaping off the couch into the fluff.

As is evident, it was everywhere.  

My two have come trailing clouds of glory.

Fluffy glory today.

And I do feel that Heaven lies about them in their infancy, 

even when they seem hell-bent on destruction.

They look so angelic.

But don't be fooled.