Essence

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Even a dull October day lifts the spirit

who loves rain. Even grey, if grey

beauty is in the eye. Of the beholder

drenched in essence of mist, it is said she

laughs at the ghost of sorrow, lost in what

beauty is. In the eye of the beholder—

even a dull October day. The spirit lifts.

Hope sways with the heron on a black bough

gone wild—the storm sleepless, trying

to pitch them from their nest into the night

like brittle wings clipped and dumped with the rest

of the dead, the broken and fallen crushing mauve

primrose and hyacinth; faith fading to darkness

as bleak as the back of the moon where nightmares menace

unfettered by a lucid dawn, gentle

breeze or daydream. Yet the heron on a black

bough gone wild in a wind storm, sleepless

throughout the night, faced with the rest of the dead,

the broken and fallen, the crushed primrose and hyacinth

at the edge of a bleak and moonless future filled

with a nightmare menace unfettered by dawn’s lucid

tread, gentle breeze or daydream—regains

his precarious balance, holding on to hope.

The cedar wags its ragged crown,

limbs thrashing at the mountain

out of reach—

as if, before it was a tree

it strolled those slopes on four furred paws,

daily raised them up, claws

unsheathed, to shred the very bark it would become—

a green bear howling for its former home.