Driving to work this morning, I watched ghost ponies graze in the soft white fog nestled in the hollows of a neighbor's pasture. My swollen eyes even haloed beauty into the traffic lights and street lamps. Last Sunday I threw open the curtains from the bedroom window and brilliant gold rained upward as the finches startled from the echinacea and flew into the surrounding trees. That afternoon, my mother, her voice hushed with the glory of it, told of standing in her driveway in the early morning awed by a crescent moon sailing in the star-studded sky. The crimson crepe myrtle blooms at my study window, determined despite the assault of pruning shears to pour joy into the world. Beauty, beauty, beauty . . . gems of joy everywhere to the seeing eye.
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