Shimmering silken strands
Shivering, shining in a sunbeam
That slips through shaded boughs
And streams to spot the grass below –

A thousand quivering strings of glimmering
Catching, stretching out the glitterings,
Tracing rough and darkened branches
White with lacy lengths of glow –

What are these but plain and ugly things,
So many spiderwebs ‘mong branchings
Of a single, simple pine tree
That weeps sap-tears to the ground?

Yet they become much more than just themselves:
When o’re-washed with bright cascading,
Clothed a-new with light’s remaking
They’re transformed and glorified.

New-green, the hills,

All speckle-swirled with white,

Stretch ‘round to bask

In glowing sun’s delight

And duck through woods

Of shadow tossed by trees

That tow’r aloft

To catch the laughing breeze

Which dives to whirl

Through flower-galaxies

A-drape, lace-white,

O’er swells of grass-space green

And, twirling, sets

The starlet flowers a-dance

To toss the world

Their wonder-blushing glance.

I see the silver tree-tops.

I watch the play of light
On leaves and branches
Lofted to the sky
Dark, dull, and dreary.

There they shine.
They glow

Against a low’ring gloom
Of clouded night.
They stand, uphold
Reflections of

A distant light.

‘Midst branches bare and brown,

With twigs a-tangle in the mist

They float – frail bits of parchment

Traced with wettened water twists

That track to where drips drop themselves

From faded tips to seek the ground

Where all the other autumn leaves

Adorn the dirt, now layer-gowned.

And still the air-borne pale ones cling;

The branch-bound deck their trees with rows

Of whitened gold that sun’s return

Will catch inside and set a-glow.

We entered.

“Come see the artwork,” they said,

So I looked, and I saw it –

there, up ahead,

And above, and below, and indeed,

all around,

In wall, floor and ceiling,

easily found.

They pointed,

“Look: collages, etchings, drawings, and paintings.”

But I really preferred the

subtle swirlings

Of the slate floor’s grain lines as they

whirled and twirled

And crashed against the edges of their

stone-block world.

They claimed,

“These collages profoundly express social awareness and deep feeling.”

But in truth, I thought more of the

ceiling

Where the gaps and the cracks in the rough

two-by-fours

Told me vague tales of time sealed behind

the past’s doors.

They stated,

“This artist portrayed life in candid and bold etchings and sketches.”

But my interest was all in another floor’s

stretches

Of marbled molasses set in wood

honey-brown,

Sealed smooth so I saw my own face when

I looked down.

They spoke,

“These paintings…” but I still didn’t hear.

I was too busy looking up, down, far

and near,

Completely wrapped up in all that

I saw.

This was pure beauty

raw.

What more did I need?

But did I

see all there was to see?

Could I

have looked beyond (and how far?) what I saw easily?

Could I

have tried to comprehend something unnatural to me?

Could I

have reached out to grasp a different kind of beauty?