Beauty
Cottonwood trees,
John Lennon's "Imagine,"
Sunsets.
It occurs to us,
we are sometimes blind to beauty.
A crowded market.
The genuine laughter of children.
We barely sleep,
dreaming only of all the
"togetherness"
coming our way.
What do people even smell like anymore?
Our mother's bosom feels nearer to a stranger.
We fall to our knees.
Having read this book back to front,
not skipping any pages,
can we hand it back now?
Everything is beautiful.
We get it now, we see it.
