an adobe brick drying in the sun.
Its deep satisfaction after completing a task that needed to be done.
The beauty of it, is cranes in formation flying overhead with purpose and dignity.
I love that love can’t be measured or put into bottles, though people try to all the time.
Its beauty is that there is no metric attached.
It’s always present, it simply exists, like air, or the decision to live, whether or not to breathe.
making them more likely to be addicts.
What about the love Gene ?
Does how we love, affect our children?
Did the way our parents love affect us?
Was our parents love affected by our grandparents love?
To cover up the disease we have become?
Perhaps if we looked up at the sky more often, giving time to reflect natures beauty.
allowing double helix’s to finally untwist into origami cranes.
The Beauty of Love…
trickles through the crevices of my brain like soft lotion, protects me from what hurts, always hurting and I must be brave or I will fall down in the dead leaves already fallen like when angels shed their wings. They fall lightly in thin air. Silently they make a soft landing as if they knew another heart was dropping out from the everlasting faith there is beauty in sadness. The beauty is inside, you can’t see it, and I lose faith. But the beauty of love is that the beauty is of love, you can multiply it from a word problem. The love triangle is not perfect, only perfect squares get to the root of what is exact. The beauty of love can be multiplied to infinity, and that is beautiful. My beautiful word problem has no answers to be exact; to be perfect is not the solution.
The beauty of love is in the trees where birds sing to the angels when they see another heart dropping to the ground. The air is gone. There is no more lift, no more spring in the step. The birds keep singing, always singing to angels, “Shed your wings.” And they do – dry my tears. I take a breath in and look up to see the beauty of love is in the air, colorless, odorless, shapeless, true to form. Some want to call him a name, but I prefer it be nameless for I don’t always believe in what I cannot see. I see the numbers keep going and the pace is fast. I can’t keep up and so I fall down, catch my breath, look around, stay still and listen. I hear my heart beating slower, slower, and slower till its gone. I found it in the beauty of love. It took me to safe place, gave me wings.
It took me to find my heart. I found it in sadness, in the tears shed. In the water I saw my reflection look back at me. The ripples reflected my brain and I saw beauty in the crevices. My eyes were alive. My feet carried my weight and I was light again.
I held out my hand to catch the dandelion. I caught the wish and I wished it well as I blew it off to land somewhere soft, the softest spot in all the world. It landed on my heart and it began to beat again. It danced to the fastest beats, gave way to a skipping rhythm, until the last guitar string was held down to carry out the melancholy sounds. It plays music to the all the songs. I can hear them on a clear blue day, ringing out its pain, rejoicing in its gladness as I sway back and forth with trees and the birds. The beauty of love came round again, always around. You just have to hear it in the songs, and see it the sadness and in the happiness of our faces, in the light and the dark; it’s there, always there. It comes to you when you need it the most. Tears me apart sometimes, builds me back up, keeps recycling, up and down through the crevices of my mind.