Beauty is not a
pretty thing.
Beauty has guts,
and probing roots
That vie and tangle
in the soil,
And feed the blooms
that feed the bees.
Beauty is not from
yesterday;
It carries the
weight of centuries
Across its broad
and crooked back
When it comes hobbling
down the lane.
And beauty isn’t
easy. Beauty’s hard.
It makes demands;
it won’t negotiate.
A cruel master and
a crueler love,
It bends or breaks
you, and it has its way.
But beauty’s worth
it. Beauty’s worth the pain,
The toil, the
sleepless nights, the blood, the years;
It roots us in a
past in which our souls,
Blind, bold and
timeless, chant their homesick songs,
And beauty listens,
and its ears are ours.
