All conceptions of beauty are idealized, period. If you’re lucky, that ideal will emanate from a place so deep within your heart, that as your spouse begins to age and show the defeats of time, you’ll see only what your heart sees. But, for most of us, we’ll see only what the skin shows—And that is our unfortunate karma.
Forward
You’ve shattered the image,
marble glass and clay
scattered like broken dreams.
There’s no repair,
no reconstruction
for these lost ideals,
Grecian models fragmented
into rubble,
jigsaw disappointment.
What is there to save?
These jagged shards will only
tear the skin.
Yet there’s still the garden,
paulownia trees in bloom,
a little brown path.
Please, take my hand;
let’s walk, find a casual pace,
and leave this waste behind.
At best, for those of us disturbed by the shape of skin and bone, we must make an effort—a conscious effort—to move beyond what we merely see. If we don’t, we must repeat our tragedies over and over until there is nothing left to do but die alone.
