This poetry stared back at me today from atop the shelf of my coffee cart. A remnant of my daughter’s tea consumed earlier this morning. On most days I would quickly scold her about leaving a dirty cup on the shelf but today the unwashed cup was my Muse and welcomed reminder that beauty is indeed not caused or even really created for that matter - but rather it just IS. The beauty falls all around me now tracing itself on the chipped paint of the windowsill that belongs to a home numbered 45 with a meaning of the deepest comforting love in numerology speak. Beauty IS early morning hours before the sunrise and the blistering cold on my feet that grazes the hundred year old wood floors as I sink deeper into the pleasures of coveted silent routines. Beauty IS the memories that fill this house and thus my consciousness of the innocent adolescence that is my children’s collective childhood. Beauty IS ages 18, 20 snd 39 and the glimpses of all the ages past; if I’m lucky they appear like an outline in the mirror that’s hung there all these years. Here in my home bare feet in the beauty of life not because it was forced but simply because it just IS.
XO,Ash
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