The call to beauty

While wandering down the beach
and wondering at the cliff above,
I hear the call to beauty, and look up.
A simple rock,
a sediment of stone –
blueberry, folded into dough --
an arc of iron, orange, bright eclipse;
a dust of celadon,
the hint of moss to come,
the shells that speak
the presence of the sea,


of tides whose height surpasses mine;
of waves that hurl their gifts
against the stone
to settle in the cracks and spark
as stars might peer through a rain-clad sky.

Who needs a pen
when hardness such as this
can hold such color,
tell such stories?
Let eyes drink deep
and feed the poet’s heart.