last week

What poetry is there in the common? How can two people on four legs walking around a lake be beautiful? Is it the moon, cutting through the sky with its vibrant face? Is it the light from downtown reflecting off the thick, low hanging clouds? Did it spring into existence standing on a dark dock?

What beauty is there in a loud, crowded restaurant? How can the shells of muses on the wall shine so brightly? Is it generated by the frozen faces of the mighty caught mid-roar? Or is it rather to be found in the quiet upstairs doorway that leads to a wet roof?

Where is the majesty of life found in the house her grandfather built? Do the stained-glass windows contain within them true joy? Perhaps in the brightly colored rooms, or in the blue light reflecting off a counter top?

The poetry is found in the rhythm of two voices bouncing over the lake's water, hands held to keep from being swept away. The beauty is in the bright smile of raucous reverence and deference offered to the remains of those days. The majesty is found in arms wrapped around each other while a small screen explains inside jokes.

Love is a funny thing because it exists in our minds and hearts, inexplicably and without good reason. And yet, you're good enough reason for me.