Rhapsody
That which is
beautiful I know,
A sonata by
Mozart,
a mobile by Calder,
a blues rift lifted off the neck of
Lucile
by BB. King.
The three days
in October
when there is no other word
for
The list goes on
like a Whitman poem.
Bubbles up in
the ball jar
of my head after the harvest.
When the
vacuum’s set
the metal lid puckers in.
I know those
beans will last.
So beauty keeps me upright.
As movement is
to bike riding
so beauty is to balance.
It catches my
wobble and
spins out from its hub,
gravity.
Even so,
the child yesterday
carried on her mother’s hip
reaching out her soft finger
and touching the condensation
upon my plastic milk jug
at the supermarket,
and the way she said “cold.”
Her pure
rhapsody,
masterful, timeless.
©2002 Dan Kantak