A woman’s beauty is light on the eyes,

best pinned in thoughts, not weighed down

by beautiful lines that cannot halt wrinkles.

 

The dying frost of dawn does not

feel sorry for the gravity of the nest

knowing the wrens inside can fly.

The ode is limited to its chilling beauty.

 

The sublime pleasure of discovering

on a stroll the transitory pleasures

of another’s pedestrian secret life

is only weighed  down by

future speculations of their destiny.

 

The gentle grace of a grazing fawn

killed by the hunter’s bullet

is elevated by the photo

caught before the moment.

 

The moon rises only on a setting sun

yet  the calf of a homeless man

is wondrous reflected in the night’s light.

Even the suicide jumping off the bridge

is beautiful in the dark fall.

 

The butterfly takes flight

in the shout of the

lepidopterist’s child

hoping to catch it in his net.

He goes home sad not

knowing what he has

lost with his heavy words.