Shall we say this is
beautiful?
Such as: this moon, sitting splayed
like some old lady on a sweltering summer day,
is beautiful.
Brush of hands together, cursory,
thrill of another,
may we submit
this, too, is beautiful?
Might we also say
that tonight your hair, your face,
the way you walk,
the bird in your voice,
that all this is beautiful?
Could we add rolling hills,
open fields,
highways (long gray tongues of promises),
falling-down barns, abandoned.
We could agree that all these things are beautiful,
could we not?
Summer mown grass,
woodsmoke in winter,
rising scents of peaches at a roadside stand,
dark, ancient roar of ocean beach, beautiful.
Terror clench of air, dark massive storm
stomping in.
Children fresh from the bath,
could we not posit that all this,
yes, is so very, very beautiful?
Then, too, music,
passing car radio in summer.
Voice that calls you to supper,
horn on your bike, cardboard in your spokes,
fireworks in mad disputation with the night sky,
crickets,
early morning birds,
late afternoon autumn crows,
scattering frost onto the fields,
church bells, meditation bells,
sudden rise or fall as one voice in a stadium,
wind-chimes,
hoopla of carnival sounds,
church organ,
cat purr,
car horn,
motorcycle blat,
lone trumpet down the street, brassing up and down scales.
Are these not all,
all so very beautiful to us?
Everything sanctifies itself,
ineffable rise of day,
solemn fall of night,
beautiful and sacred,
deep dark of woods at night,
all that we cannot know—embrace.
Silence.
Stillness.
Beautiful.
