To the grain
I know full well that beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
but when I see the fine gold thread draped
across your shoulder,
or the close woven fibres bound tight,
wrapped around you,
following the contours of your form -
dark beading
on branches leading,
growing outward from the trunk which was torn,
cut,
shaped,
smoothed
to reveal your figure;
When I think about you in three dimensions,
about the way your body bore
so much tension,
your slow, patient growth
far beyond my comprehension;
When I think about the winters you weathered,
the summers you thirsted,
the number of your leaves
which littered the ground,
the swaying in the breeze,
dancing in the light,
browning in the cold;
When I imagine the sound -
creaking under gale,
thumping under rain -
and think of the trials
you endured again
and again;
I know full well that beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
but as I grasp the fine gold thread draped
so intentionally around your shoulder,
the tell-tale signs of your maker’s hand,
like marks of the lifetimes you were created to stand,
I can't imagine whose eyes would hold you
any less than what you were,
will always be,
what you are.