Beauty , where are you ?

(without a mention of wild roses)
 
Are you there always resting, quietly in the strings of the violins
effortlessly shining in stars, blowing through trees?
We apprehend you, when we open our eyes to you
 
and our throats to you in song.  I want to call you Orpheus but you have no name.
Something moves us, it feels familiar
a repetition of what a father told us driving down to school in winter

he retelling what his mother told him, which she read in a magazine
on life and philosophy.   This is not you, I don’t think it is.  
Unannounced, though ever present and unassuming,

only waiting to be felt or seen.   Plato, where is the most lovely swan
do you judge a sparrow or measure golden wheat bowing before their harvest?
Or storm clouds chasing blue across the sky or a silver moon or the sun rising...

Or childrens eyes, curious, hungry, innocence ever slipping away.
Can we know an artist's hard won image, though shocking in its familiarity ?
Divine lightening, creative electricity,  music of rivers and oceans

passing moments filled to full and fuller, fullfilling the life
transforming the sum of suffering and joy, if I miss you rendered perfectly in Bach
I find you again in the remains  to be given to the dog, left by a boy running

through dirty streets.   Reflected in the heart's mirror you whisper
in the language of being and love stretching out opening in time, when
I place my baby to sleep on the great lion's back, she sleeps and I finally trust.