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Posts Tagged ‘beauty’

 

 

 

A flower in the field

is always changed by rain.

It is never indifferent

to sun. Even the slightest

of breezes will bend it,

will rearrange. An ant

walks through its center—

now so much more is possible.

It never pretends

to be unaffected by the world.

I have so much to learn

from the flowers of the field,

how they never turn their backs—

they don’t even have backs.

How they withstand hail

and flood and snow and chill

and still, they bloom,

they spill seeds, they

bring all the beauty they can.

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One Persistence

 

 

 

in my thoughts

a tap-rooted weed

sometimes I notice

its beautiful pink blooms

before I pull it again

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beside the floodplain

acre after acre of pale blue

thousands of wild iris—

 

just thinking of sharing them

they become (is it possible?)

yes, more beautiful

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For though it is cold and bitter,

you raise your bright faces

and radiate loveliness—

as if to prove what is delicate

can thrive in adversity.

 

There is so much chill,

and sometimes I forget

I can meet bitterness with softness—

I think I, too, must learn

to speak the language of sharp.

 

But you, pansies, purple and yellow,

white and maroon, you remind me

that softness can be resilient,

that one small beauty

changes everything—

 

and if today we are able to shine,

despite cold, despite callousness,

then shamelessly, splendidly

let us shine.

 

 

 

 

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And Just Like That

 

 

 

the deep field of snow

with its crystals and diamonds

turns to mud

 

and the stem of purple orchids

drops its blooms

until it is only stem

 

and we, too, rearrange

and become not beauty

but its source

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Reflection

 

 

We are the dust that sings.

            —Art Goodtimes

 

 

She has learned not to trust the mirror.

When she is not near it, she’s beautiful.

Here, in firelight, she knows herself

as one of many stems in an enormous

bouquet, all of them lovely. And in moonlight,

she shines along with the rest of the shining world.

And in the longest night, she is the dust

that dances, dust that sings, dust that knows beauty

everywhere it looks, inside, outside.

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Concentric

 

 

 

See, I want to say to my son. See

how the pond has frozen in thick,

 

continuous curves. See all the lines,

how they ring each other, like dozens

 

of tiny orbits. I want to show him

the marvel of it all, but he is too old

 

now for marvels, or perhaps too young,

the precise age where beauty is boring.

 

And so I take the child of myself to the pond

and show her the rings. I resist the urge

 

to explain how the meltwater formed them,

how surface-tension forces make liquid melt

 

cling against the lower parts of the ice.

Instead, I let her gaze at the miracle,

 

trace the concentric bands with her fingers.

How curious the rings are, like frozen halos

 

that fit enormous angels. How astonishing

in their design. Just wait till I show her

 

we can walk on it, too. I let her amazement

become my own, our feet slipping

 

across the smooth surface, our breath

rising in white ephemeral curls.

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You think it’s so much better to be petal,

pink flower, the perfumed bloom that lures

 

the bee. You with your flutter and blush.

Not all of us can be soft. Not all of us

 

can be beauty, and you have that role

all wrapped up. You with your tender buds,

 

your loveliness splayed. But I was not

made that way. Was made prick. Was

 

made barbed. Was made snappish

and piercing and sharp. Was made

 

fierce. Was made lance. Was made

to take no chances with survival.

 

There is glory in defense. Everything

that touches me remembers. I’m the one

 

that defines the scene. How would you know

your beauty without me?

 

 

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Today I woke in the dark and was busy

making lunches during the sunrise,

though surely it happened. And I drove

 

in the low morning light along

the San Miguel River for half an hour,

not once noticing the color of the water,

 

the scent on the banks, though past

experience leads me to believe

that there were thousands, millions,

 

of tiny beautiful miracles happening

there in that half hour alone. How much

beauty is lost on me every day, every moment?

 

Though as I stepped out of the car

to walk into work, I saw, stuck to my boot, one

brilliant orange aspen leaf outlined in gold,

 

and for a whole minute, I stared at it,

marveled at its symmetrical veins,

its delicate stem, the astonishing intricacy

 

of its edges. How easily gloriousness finds us, sticks

to us even. How wholly available, this art

of meeting the glittering, luminous world.

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after Saint Francis and the Sow by Galway Kinnell

 

 

And when my daughter

runs to greet me, charges

me with joy, I am like

the great thick sow Saint Francis blessed

with his touch. For though

I look in the mirror

and see only what I wish to change,

my daughter sees differently

and bulldozes me with love,

a ferocious blessing,

reteaching me in a vigorous rush

that there is something

beautiful here, though

she wouldn’t name it as such—

and a small remembering

takes root in me and

vines throughout my thoughts,

and I flower there in blue surprise,

my own soil, again, enough.

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