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The lightness of the morning,

unencumbered;

the sun alighting

the unforeseen snow

buffeting the house;

the reeds bending, slightly

beneath their glorious burdens,

the weeping canes

of the blackberries

is something, is all, is peace.

It is great to see beauty in great things.

It is greater to see beauty in lesser things;

to see majesty stretched

upon the leaf, the stone,

the silhouetted tree;

to see the scroll of the infinite

sketched upon the simple

and sublime;

Divine artistry on humble display.

I have fought

with the soul of a mathematician

to qualify and quantify,

to craft and create.

Now, with permission,

I may observe

the robin in flight,

the wisp of cloud,

with the mind of the poet

cataloging the rising sun,

the steam rising

from the mug of tea,

the strands of my daughter's hair

with thankfulness

and purpose,

content not in utility

but in beauty 

and communion.

The untarnished

drifts

sparkle as gems 

under a clear sky,

painting the world

impossibly white

-- an inescapable purity,

an echo.

Then it is gone,

a moment unsustainable,

incalculable

but bound forever

in its beauty

in its memory

that I may rise

with thankfulness.