Beauty

 

I’ve stood before

and watched the stars

in perfect, silent wonder.

Without a thought

from whence they came,

enamored with their numbers.

It was enough,

for me to sit

and count them

one

by

one.

No need to ask

that twinkling sky

“Who made your stars,

your suns?”

 

I’ve sat before

and listened to

my wise professor

speak.

Of bursting stars,

combusting suns, how

“Dust makes us unique.”

I have marveled

at the theories

made by men

so long ago.

And the constant

new discoveries

of a universe

aglow.

 

Not once in all this learning

have I ever felt a yearning

nor some supernatural burning

for why our universe is turning.

But many men have told me

that art consists of only

that which science cannot fully

understand nor give to wholly.

They quote me their Walt Whitman

as they seek for my submission

and I know they’ll never listen

still I ask them to envision:

 

a trillionth,

of a trillionth,

of a trillionth,

of a second.

An explosion of energy

with no

true

direction.

A burst of heat

more intense than the

suns

combusting all matter,

still expanding,

never done.

 

I say, “Come back to me now.

Tell me how you feel.

Did dreams of scientists

confound you?

Did they offer you a thrill?

Did you find beauty

in their art?

Did you understand for a

second?

That art is all

encompassing?

That beauty

can’t

be

reckoned?

 

For while there’s

beauty

in just sitting

in solitude

and waiting

there is beauty too

in searching

for knowledge,

understanding,

for the how in our existence

with earnest-passionate persistence.

Yes,

there’s beauty all around us

in the befores and

in the afters

in the nows and

in the nevers

on our floors and

in our rafters.

So may we never

say again,

that beauty must depend

on

any

single

remnant

for beauty’s not dependant

on any single thing.”

Now,

when someone

says to me,

“my

what a

beautiful

thing”

I’ll do nothing

but agree,

as I find beauty in the search

to see what I can’t see.