With Our Beautiful

Everything has it in its bones,
the wind sings over the caves
the mountains belch of its taste.
The seed marrying the earth in death
the water having no father or mother.
The orphaned sun,
The prodigal moon,
Even in the Earth that births
rocks, trees and man, earth that births metal.
In the sound of silence will you find it,
In the tears pouring from above.
In the disguise clouds that homes,
In the thick proud colors of the rainbow.
From the beginning of the first clock,
To the old of the barking tree.
Where you find it carries music,
It carries the same tone of love
It carries the repetitive pain of gifts
given as day and night,
given as the present.
It is wrapped in the wrinkles of the old child,
and the softness of the dead.
It is written in the words unsaid
and said in the morning by noon.
It is a verdant mixture of ash and royalty
blue skies and coloring birds.
You will find it in entwined poetry
and in music notes composed by will.
Where you find our beautiful
is in everything mystified as Earth and called as world.

Ruddapoet