Without Why

Acrylic on photopaper

"The rose is without why, it blooms because it blooms,
It pays no attention to itself, asks not whether it is seen."
-- "Without Why," Angelus Silesius

Sunlight dappled the tree, making the dew on its delicate, almost wraith, leaves glisten. The green shined like a cluster of freshly-polished emeralds snuggled against the pale blue silk of the sky. With the soporific rhythm of the wind, the bejeweled tree danced languidly; its brown neck is poised proudly, slender and graceful like a swan's, aware of its striking beauty. Below, the lake mirrored this grandeur, its sparkles like pixie dust on the picture.

The Poet

Ice writes the most beautiful poems. He whips them up in a minute or two; I do not know how he does it. I know his poems are breathtaking in their beauty, but really, I do not understand them. I do not understand them, but really, I know that they are beautiful. I tell him that they are lovely like music, that I love them for their haunting melody. Still, I wonder how he feels, being with someone who does not understand. That must wrench his heart.

I wonder what it must be like to understand his poems. I wonder about the phantasmic truths his words hold.