poetry for the poetic: 5

CXXIV

the rains, gentle dripping of promises
of new life as the sun rises behind
the backdrop mass of grey clouds
with sycamores, a sculptured death cycle

if the beauty is in the whole of it.
if beauty is rain, grass, worms wriggling up
sidewalks, wet, littered with leaves
leaves clinging to trees, trees rising barren leafless beauty skeleton fit structures

if all that is deeply satisfying,
beautiful, soul happiness is sinking
masses blending to landscape

if becoming part of the larger whole
mutely without justification.
beauty is in just being

pure happiness comes through, not in dreams
but settling into the cycle life
accepting my place in death.