Beauty

Beauty is not the sunset.
It is the hand that stops mid-task
to look at it.

The tea goes cold.
Voices below.
A bird crosses once
through the evening air,

as if the sky
had asked for full attention,
as if this pause
were not delay
but deliberate.

The work waits.
The hour narrows.
Time has the pressure
of a door already closing
while you are still deciding.

Still, the hand does not move.

Below, the day goes on
with its errands,
its laughter,
its old demand
to hurry toward something.

He has heard before
what they call it
when a person gives too much
to one unnecessary,
necessary act.

On the sill,
a flower opens.
By night it will close.

No rehearsal.
No second chance
for this exact light,
and only so many
more it will see.

To open.
To give.
To one act
done well,

because not to do it
would leave something
unoffered.

He looks at the work,
how far the hand has carried it.
And much remains.

For an instant
existence feels deliberate,
a brief opening
held long enough
to be known.

Then it closes,
and the room returns
to its ordinary weight.

That, somehow,
is enough.

The hand moves again.
He returns to the work,
as if answering
something only he can hear.