Beauty

What is this thing

Of which we speak

Without knowing

How to find the words

To do it justice.

We use covert language,

Talk of tree and leaf,

The blazing sky,

Stars that gaze

In silent attribution.

And surround the truth

With meanings full

Of depth and colour

Designed to cover

A lack of understanding.

It is not a word

At all,

But a deeply rooted feeling,

A gift,

To be always freely given.

A kiss upon the head,

A tremor

Creeping up your spine.

A flutter,

That tickles in your heart.

The end of the beginning,

The moment

It all starts.

The view of

Your own garden,

The sight

Of your front door.

The hearth rug

You both lay upon,

Together,

Naked,

On the floor.

It is the sound of newborns

Breathing,

A tiny hand,

That fits

Into your palm.

The smile.

The touch.

A look that says so much.

It is all this and more.

The opening and closing,

The window

And the door.

It is all we

Ever wanted

It is what drives us on,

To fight, to live and die for,

It is plainly, simply,

Beauty.

And we find it

All around,

In every nook and cranny,

Every single

Scene and place,

It depends on nothing

But for this,

You need to make a choice,

And if you choose

To see it right,

Oh my friend,

What joy,

What love,

What bliss.