“At some point in life, the world’s beauty becomes enough.”
Until the world’s beauty becomes enough, I will write about it.
Until then, I will write about how beauty is never more than a painting,
or a poem, or enough to remember. I will write about how some mornings
are so dark the sky is an old brown bruise, a mute telling stories of longing:
the dawn for the day, the day for the night, the night for the dawn.
I will write about how some mornings I am mouthed by fog,
a blanket of the cold thick breath of day, and I cannot see beyond.
And how on those days the mountains are terrible, gatekeepers of light.
Until then, I will break apart each ray of sun as I break apart each poem.
Because some mornings I wait by the window, looking out toward the channel,
and there is enough light to name a painting hope. Maybe then.
But there is always want. I will tell of it.