What was I dwelling on that day? Why were my thoughts streaming into the same despairing well?
Just the day before I had picked a single yellow daffodil and left it in a slender blue glass vase at the table where I now sat so bleakly.
When I looked up, the sight of it startled me—how it, in its fragile singularity could so strongly contradict everything I was thinking.
It looked so out of place.
I burst out crying.
Stream of beauty
Beauty nudges at the sticks and stones
in one’s soulful creek.
It is spring runoff from a distant mountain.
It loosens that which tightens, narrows, blocks.
Shield of Beauty
Maybe if I look long enough at the sky,
the cloud, the rain in the distance,
the trembling rose, the road, the pebble,
My mind will be given a shield of beauty
between what is and what is.