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Posts Tagged ‘beauty’

Dear Finn,

 

 

 

Full of seed, the bird feeder hangs

from the cottonwood tree

we planted years ago.

Even without the birds,

it is beautiful—

dangling midair

with its copper perches

and glass column.

 

This morning in the news,

we are going to war with each other—

either with words or with missiles.

It seems clear

that we are our own problem.

 

No wonder we try to bring beauty in close—

the garden with its open faced pansies,

the hummingbird feeder with its hold

of sugar water.

 

The battles are not

what will save us,

it’s beauty—not just

outside us, but in us.

 

All day, let us look

for ways be like this brown bird

at the feeder, see

how it gathers light

in its open wings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Beside the highway,

the willows are beginning

to find their green

and the dandelions

have begun to spell

their golden praise

across the ground.

What more did I think

I needed today?

Some proof that things

do not fall apart?

Let me surrender

to beauty, brief

as it is, the melody

that plays beneath

all other melodies.

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In the glass case

is a necklace

with 5,000 stone beads

all drilled and strung

over a thousand years ago

and I think of the man

whose hands did the work—

how he chose not just

to survive, but to make

something beautiful.

I think of your hands,

of the choices

they make,

quiet nights,

all around us,

so much beauty.

 

 

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After the first half mile

my shoes are soaked through

from post holing through knee deep snow.

There’s still a long way to go,

and the hike is for pleasure, after all,

so I decide it’s not so bad,

the squish of my socks,

the chill seeping in.

It’s just another way to remember

I’m alive, and though it’s slippery

and slushy, the trail,

and though I’m less nimble

than I’d wish to be,

look at that blue, blue sky,

and oh, my long shadow,

see how eagerly it leans to the east.

 

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Remember, says my friend, to look

for beauty every day. And immediately

 

I think of the blue heron I saw this afternoon

as it flew upriver, its elegant neck tucked

 

into its body in flight, its deep, slow wing beats

guiding it through the curves of the wide canyon.

 

In my chest, I felt it, the rising urge to fly,

the pulsing, the thrill of blue heron.

 

In that instant, I did not wonder

if a moment of beauty is enough

 

to sustain us through difficult times.

I knew only that I had to remind my eyes

 

to watch the highway instead of following

the great blue weight as it wove

 

through the empty cottonwood tops,

its silhouette charged with improbable grace,

 

its long legs dangling behind,

a reminder we all must land sometime.

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Come quick, said the math teacher,

grabbing me and my daughter by the hand

and rushing us past the school’s edifice

where he pointed east at rainbow

made of ice crystals hung in the air—

an ice rainbow! he exclaimed—

and we applauded with our eyes

until all three of us ran back into the shadows

to pull others to street corner,

sharing in the thrill that we did not

arrive too early, too late,

our breath coming out in misty curls,

silent, visible prayers.

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Going Forty

 

 

 

these longer days,

still not enough time

to notice how beautiful

the cottonwood

rimed in white

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