I’ve been thinking lately—
I don’t understand how it can be:
literature so full of ornate words,
classical music tangled in
odd notes and fractured rhythms,
bitter wine too dry for
an untrained palate,
and a forest—
dense with trees and shrubs,
all intertwined,
chaotic yet each in its own place.
At first, there is no beauty in these things.
You must train for it—
breathe deeply—
to see that in all this bitterness,
this strangeness,
this confusion,
there lies beauty.
Not beauty in itself,
but in the knowing—
that you must live through it
to move past the first impressions,
and reach that moment of enchantment
that steals your breath,
when your heart beats differently
because it has caught a treasure
most eyes would miss.
The bad wine turns good
once you swallow it.
The forest becomes a clearing
when you walk through it.
The symphony becomes melody
once you learn to respect
the time of things.
Yes—appreciation is
respecting the time of things.
Sometimes you must read a text
and let it settle into you.
Sometimes you must listen to music
and let the notes caress you
until your eyes fill with tears.
Sometimes you must taste
the “bad” wine
to dismantle your own walls.
