A friend and I
walked through the stillness
of a late autumn
early winter.
A gentle dust of frost
and a wisp of snow
bathed dead twigs
and leaves
and grasses,
browned,
wilted,
frost-bitten.
“Look how ugly
those rose bushes are!
Remember their summer
beauty? It’s Hard to believe
they are brown and black
and wilted!”
“And the maple tree!
Once gloriously green,
then shimmering scarlet!
Now bunches of dead,
grey twigs and branches,
a few black and brown leaves
desperately hanging on,
as if to recall former colored beauty,
as if to say “You once gazed,
amazed,
at me,
in my glory.
And the grasses!
Glowing light and dark
greens
and silver hues,
now fallen over
blades
of rotten decay
and death.”
I paused
on our walk.
My breath
formed silver clouds
suspended before my face.
In that suspenseful,
suspended
moment,
it seemed I could see
through the cloud, clearly,
what had been,
and what would yet be,
and what was:
Beauty.
My voice hushed,
almost to a whisper,
as though I feared
to disturb
their slumber.
“When you awake,
first,
in the morning,
and gaze at your lover,
as the early beams
turn her hair shimmering,
her skin glowing,
you stop
and admire her,
gently,
silently, softly.
You look
not just from memory
of past beauty
and delight,
of moments shared.
Do you wish she looked
as she did
in her shimmering black dress?
Her swimsuit at the beach?
Her well-maintained work ensemble?
Her cook’s outfit?
Her yoga suit?
or that get-up-and-go
only you see
(and only for a moment!)?
Is that what you wish for
and think of
as you see her,
dreaming,
slumbering?
No.
You stop
and gaze,
and appreciate
in THAT moment,
and enjoy THAT view.
You don’t criticize
hair tossed and tangled.
You don’t call revolting
a face that is devoid
of all enhancing make up,
that still glows
with faint warmth.
You don’t withdraw
from her scent
made stronger from
her time and energy
spent providing you joy.
When you look upon her,
you don’t see
ugly.
You see beauty
in so many forms,
you hold your breath
for fear that the very air
you exhale
might disturb her,
might stir her
from her deep slumber,
and that moment
of soft,
gentle,
pure
beauty
will be lost.
“Just a moment more,”
you think,
“to admire in rapt
appreciation,
her peaceful,
tranquil,
sleeping
soul.”
So it is
when I gaze
on my
wilted rose garden,
my bare tree branches,
my brown and blackened grasses.
I do not see death,
ugly,
with its black,
brown,
and wilted rot.
Instead,
I see a sleeping
beauty,
sweet repose
in that wilted rose.
I see the twigs
and tufts of grass
slumbering,
gathering strength.
I admire the look,
gaze
at the phase
they are in,
sleeping,
resting,
renewing.
That renewal
not only
has its own beauty,
but it reminds me
of what is yet to come:
Tight buds pushing
out of twigs
and branches;
bright green blades
bursting forth
past old ancestors
that provided protection
and nourishment;
bright scented petals
bending seemingly dead
sprigs,
exploding the garden
with early spring color.
Gazing, I see
not just that promise,
but the soft, gentle,
subtle breathing,
the ebb and flow,
the yin and yang
of sleeping,
resting,
reviving
beauty.”
My words
and breath
hung,
crystal in the air,
then slowly fell,
shimmering,
and surrounded
that sleep
with morning rainbows
and promises.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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