In the Absence of Beauty
After the sawmill: a literary spokesman,
a nice sleep, a long time, a man
and a hand watching her face, erased.
I want to paint the still living miracle
of a breeze speaking with flat affect
to the moon and its shadows, trapped
by devastation and disguised by all
most recently dead: butterflies, bees,
and ocean breath drained to dust.
And then again . . . Wordsworth sagely notes . . .
Glad sight wherever new with old
Is joined through some dear homeborn tie;
The life of all that we behold
Depends upon that mystery.
Vain is the glory of the sky,
The beauty vain of field and grove
Unless, while with admiring eye
We gaze, we also learn to love.
-- William Wordsworth