We can’t craft beauty,
can only unveil it
in sheer draperies
one at a time,
or pungent onion layers peeled,
or even the tender horror
of scabs off wounds.
It will find us if we look,
perching on our hearts
that have grown like patient cedars
to be homes for wings,
reservoirs of song.
I don’t mean pretty,
and even loveliness is fleeting;
beauty is everywhere,
inviting us to notice.