A Beauty that Endures by Aching

 

The more life takes away,

the more aesthetic

I become.

Maybe this is how

an artistic soul

clarifies itself:

through privation.

 

I’ve heard it said:

A heart that hurts

is a heart that works.

Then, it’s feasible

I might always be sad.

 

Though my capacity

for joy is great,

I won't abandon

my wound.

In its aching

rests a potent

source of strength.

 

What if every wound

were an altar

where attention

must be paid,

where candles

need be lit,

where decisions

best be made?

 

If pride comes

before a fall,

joy lifts us

to the clouds

like a balloon

let go

by a child

filled with

the emptiness

of bated breath.

 

How else

should a smile

leap from a face

and crawl away,

pink caterpillar

to God knows

where?

 

I am not a fable.

I am my love

for life;

blue butterfly

preserved on a pin.

11/24/22