每日归档: 2019年8月31日


My memory of a perfect scent: pine, sage, and cypress;
My friends' faith in the power of rough and winding paths
to take me up a mountain and bring me back.

Specimens plucked from that mountain's pastures:
Indian paintbrush, sego lily, ordinary wildflowers.

What Beauty Does


Dolorous, here he made his stand
Like those who are beaten,
Behind, the mountains, and in front, the sea,
To the west a rock by the brown river eaten.
Here beauty went along the strand
Smashing green waves against the white sand.

“Beyond the rock there, that’s his thatch.”
So spoke up a neighbor.
“And you’ll be finding leather string on latch
And him inside, at peace from labor.”

He Who Loved Beauty


And a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty. And he answered: Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide? And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?

On Beauty