Category: Poetry

Thunderclouds building on a hot, humid day. The whirr of the bicycle chain and the rhythm of the cranks, well into a long ride. The still small voice that need not announce itself with ornamentation. Beauty is all possible things.

Beauty is yesterday and my memory of it. Beauty is a November day so brilliantly blue that even the roots of winter wither into forgetfulness.

Emptiness informs life’s unread scroll. My future step is now. And now it’s past.

When we see, we connect. We connect with the thing, and we connect with some deep part of ourselves. We connect with some kind of longing, some kind of love.

But then, I might feel that the cycle of life is itself beautiful. For me, I’ll take a drizzly, grey day, and a walk with my dog over grimy streets. Now that’s beautiful. That and my beautiful wife.