Beauty

In the eye of the imagination,
it exists and is daily recreated,
like the filaments of weather
which straddle your vision’s
movement from limb to hawk,
to flight, to feathers entwined
with air and descending snow,
tickertape, a lazy brush across
whiteboard.  In your mind,
every snow-covered shape exists,
yet doesn’t.  No, not like on
a sunlit day in fading August, when
the world is a weary love
affair, too intimate, too
stark, too arid and too withered.
Better this snowstorm and
this faded world — indistinct,
with everything possible, even
this perfection the mind envisions.