UPDATE, 7/14: The first version of this was embarrassingly bad, so I exercised the first rule of poetry revision: excise, excise, excise.
A Picture of Beauty
We admire it because there is a such thing existing unto itself, needing no reference point.
It is not at all like evil in this sense – did it come before good? Which will come last? These are not questions asked of beauty:
finality of worlds, failings of hearts, this sort of metaphysics. Of beauty, there is no doubt, like eyeing a divine maiden in one of those Renaissance paintings reclined on a sable loveseat, dove-white arm bent ever so at the elbow past the natural angle as if to shade the artist's light,
or the maiden in dreams along a wooded creek, floating soundlessly.
The thing about beauty is it leaves no space for second-guessing. The feeling washes over you
in the freshly minted Sunday morning, the just-woken light careening down.
Studies and surveys have shown symmetry is beautiful, but I think it's simpler. The beautiful is beautiful, a paper boat on a lagoon, or in a creek, pointed towards a destination we’ve glimpsed, perhaps, in a favorite art gallery or childhood dream.