Because beauty is awake to itself,
We quicken in its consideration,
We take ourselves down from the storage shelf,
We expand like infant constellations.
Forsythia blooms bright, sun dressed, bespoke,
Before hardly a bud bursts on the oak,
Because all loveliness can’t be present
At one moment in time; it’s hesitant,
And sends stems and blossoms into the air
In portions unsteady senses can bear.
Ugly is an ugly word for absence
Of beauty — let’s call it nothing at all,
And give it modest if any credence.
This is Eden and it will never fall.
My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
My Human Disguise.
My Human Disguise.