The Making of Beauty

I know how this works.
Know the drill,
every dark corner,
every bright window,
every door that leads me in and out.
I know the mornings,
the battles,
the work, the time it takes
to separate the mind’s lies from the truth,
I know the victory is both inevitable
and temporary,
a circle of life poisoned by events and chemistry,
a poisoned garden where each season
you dig out the infected earth
and plant again.

Where the poison came from does not matter.
Oh, I could give you a rundown,
a history, a medical treatise
from the best in the business.
I could, but I won’t. It is tiresome,
old news, ancient history with a gothic twist,
and in the end, it does not matter.
What matters is the work. The fresh garden,
the making of beauty, again and again,
and ever again.

About this poem

Inspired by a conversation at my second choice diner this morning. About things. About our lives. Everyone has a battle or ten going on. How we choose to fight, or surrender the battle matters.

The picture is from the foyer of The Mount, Edith Wharton’s house in Massachusetts

Go, make some beauty.

Tom