Beauty

Beauty has no meaning

Except in the flower

That looked beautiful

The rose that smelt sweet

The ocean that looked calm

The hills that looked awful

Love had no meaning

Except when the mother held me

Closed to her bosom

And I loved the warmth

The coarse finger the strongest thing

For me and it could do

Everything, overreaching the outreached

It could dither to stretch

And to sketch the first

Image on my palm

As the coarse finger

Tickled my fancy

To say, tis beautiful.

It is beautiful

As it moved up and down

To cull and curl up my thoughts

In the smoky rings

To join the clouds

In the sky, it is beautiful

The air that raised the wind

To carry the clouds all around

In shapes and sizes

That looked awful and awesome

It is beautiful.

The word reminds me of

All the things that I used to call

Beautiful as they are.