From the atom
to the galaxy,
this world
has its form,
and form
in itself is more
than pleasing,
as we, too,
have been formed
to rejoice in structure.
To come upon
the merest thing—
among boxelders,
the web
of a spider
in early morning, swirled
with droplets of water—
I am only guessing,
yet somehow I know
the commotion
that startles my self
as I thrill
in all perfect disproportion
to my interest
in naming
or possessing
a moment
which cannot be
created,
but nonetheless
must be
participated in.
And the morpheme
for all this,
base though it is,
has got to be beauty—
not mere prettiness;
that is to say:
an instant, perfect
in its own way,
until that instant
vanishes.
