Category: Poetry

It could be eyes, certainly; they are powerful lures. It could also be an oddity—shimmer or color or shadowy depth. It should certainly surprise.

When I was a little girl I loved to see, and wanted to make – and to be part of – the beautiful. Then, this meant dressing up as princess or gypsy, imagining a life surrounded by human art or nature, riding gorgeous horses, being graceful and spirited.

But the scope of this – a feathered choir in full voice, how many thousands I could not know, an all-out vocal blitz, filling the woods with something indefinably joyous, something witnessed once only, as a miracle.

In both people and art, I find myself strongly drawn to that which is lit from within.

Beauty is a composition between pauses and movements, where fantasies are sung and dissolutions can become engraved in marble. Beauty is pregnant with both the sacred and the profane, beating along with the naked eye of the heart blooming into an infinite prayer. Primordial, beauty is the essence of fiction.