I have heard
that beauty is in the eye
of the beholder
but beauty exists
apart from human
interference

beauty chooses
who it touches,
its unexpected presence
a tangible entity
with substance

it steals my breath
and enters my skin, 
trickling
down
into the tiny cells 
within my bones,
where it settles 

it awakens again
each time it recognizes 
itself,
in a piece of art,
either illuminated on a gallery wall
or pelted and weathered
by rain
in a forgotten garden

a mighty sunset
glowing,
a majestic mountain peak
rising in the distance,
or even a tiny, 
half-blown dandelion 
in a field of yellow

a broken plate
dropped by my clumsy hand
and shattered on the floor,
one shard 
containing a perfectly painted 
geometric design

the tired eyes of my father
with dementia,
a moment of recognition
stirs within
a wisp of a memory 
beyond his finger’s reach,
but anchored in love

beauty recognizes itself 
when it meets 
its likeness
in perfection and in brokenness, 
in the divine and in the damaged,
for they 
are the same