The Desperateness Of Beauty

The desperateness of beauty- every tree leaf flaming green in summer, burning yellow, crimson against falls chill, succumbing brown, brittle, free to winter's wind. In the seasons of life, spring alone offers no contention to transition. I have observed a passing of 71 seasons. Each branded tenaciously into my memory, each color rushing through my veins so my blood is not my own. I am now merely the embodiment of the sun- circled by a passing earth in its ever-stable orbit. The desperatness of beauty- rain, fine and floating as snow, descended all day long, cold, light, falling, a cloud come to earth- kissing my skin in August- moistening every surface without once touching. Precipitation something like Christmas tears of a virgin who bears Emmanuel (God with us). Resilient drops- diamond- polished into spheres of liquid frost. Each drop, a tear of one (world-weary, heart aching with what-knows) that I cannot show singular beauty. The desperateness of beauty- next to me, Alex converses of his future. I half-listen, wide-eyed, for silence between thunder as each forked tongue of fire licks, tastes sky over Findlay. This strange kindling of atmosphere consumes my attentions until I merely grasp the moment, understanding nothing of the language flowing between Alex and I. It burns my soul until I feel absolutel nothingness stretching into my future. The desperateness of beauty- oceans of sky- cirrus waves, cumulus dotting the depths- floating islands of cloud. Row upon row, washed over by thunderheads, which shadow my lonely day. Some days my worl dis sufficiently over-turned so the air I breathe is purely water, and I drown amidst the normalicy of a given moment. The desperateness of beauty- shining river- railroad shores, iron horses travel its banks. I cross over on a black ribbon of road. Away from peace, back to life, across two states. I desire to plunge off this bridge, to sink into the waters depths, to swim its length all the way to the horizon. The desperateness of beauty- the boys of our youth, faces shining, ever-eager, became uncouth men. The arbors flowers, which once were given in youthful innocence, long since withered and died beneath an aging sun. The sheets which were our tents as children, have faded and torn- defiled by time. You have struggled to keep me forever a child in your mind. I have battled womanhood and lost. You too have failed. Your glance has changed. The desperateness of beauty- remember those trees? That storm, rain, and sky? That river? Those boys I have known? Each written in my own hand, that you might understand that somehow it's the same with me. I have become desperate in my lack for beauty. I grasp at eternity with fading fingers and a dying pen. That's how it is with me, I guess- everything beautiful has become a desperation which my words are useless to preserve.COMMENT- Please COMMENT- this is a very important poem to me, but you know how it is- reading your own material- it runs together after awhile. Written August 1st, 2000 © on Feb 08 2002 01:54 AM PST   18 • 0 • 10