Beauty Lives On
What life has is the flower
without the field
the blossom without the bees
the leaves without the trees?
I think of what Wordsworth did to the daffodils
and gasp at dried grasses in elegant vases on sills
The artist’s brush leaps to the exuberance of spring
the poet sighs and sobs with the wind
the composer’s notes sing with the birds
all brought down to canvas, to paper,
to shellac and vinyl and spinning discs
and posterity, ah posterity so sweet.
Taken out of context
Nature becomes a sonnet, a sonata,
a museum piece
pedastled in polished adoration
beauty lives on by losing life.
To Go Back To
Hit your browser's
© Johnmichael Simon