“There is a flower that bees prefer,

And butterflies desire;

To gain the purple democrat

The humming-birds aspire.

And whatsoever insect pass,

A honey bears away

Proportioned to his several dearth

And her capacity.

Her face is rounder than the moon,

And ruddier than the gown

Of orchis in the pasture,

Or rhododendron worn.

She doth not wait for June;

Before the world is green

Her sturdy little countenance

Against the wind is seen,

Contending with the grass,

Near kinsman to herself,

For privilege of sod and sun,

Sweet litigants for life.

And when the hills are full,

And newer fashions blow,

Doth not retract a single spice

For pang of jealousy.

Her public is the noon,

Her providence the sun,

Her progress by the bee proclaime

In sovereign, swerveless tune.

The bravest of the host,

Surrendering the last,

Nor even of defeat aware

When cancelled by the frost.”

Excerpts From
The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson

There’s a problem in the old wisdom

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

What if the beholder is blind?

Or cockeyed?

Now, we’re thinking.

What I know of beauty,

Is that we all have it

Only in different angles

Or views—

Whatever, light always has a say.

It fades;

It wilts;

It withers;

It wrinkles—

Poor thing is timed.

And the only one

the defies all odds—

Is truth—

and nothing but the truth.

Beautiful truth!

Constantly reaching out and connecting,

Constantly being interested and be interesting,

Constantly seeking knowledge and learning,

Constantly improving and impacting,

Constantly moving and touching,

Constantly expressing optimism and hoping,

Constantly forgiving and understanding,

Constantly extending kindness and giving,

Constantly loving and caring. . .

And though your name isn’t in the dictionary,

You know,

You’re sure,

You’re living

Meaningfully.

Doves flocked at the food court during lunch;

Some walked back and forth,

Some gone in circles—

All in search of grains or crumbs.

A little beyond noon, crowd came;

Some with plates and drink ready to sit down,

Some were browsing still walking around—

All ready for the munch.

More doves came by;

Some walking in between benches and tables,

Some in standby by trash cans and bins

All in search of grains or crumbs—not a chance.

Out of nowhere a lady guard asked angrily,

“Who fed the doves?” No one answered.

“Who fed the doves?” She asked again.

So I answered, “God did. God fed the doves.”

Of our drives,

Of our wants,

Of our needs,

Of our urges,

Of our instincts,

Of our egos,

It’s when we freed ourselves

Of these—

And separate our minds from our bodies—

We can definitively say,

“I’m not living in vain;

And I’m the master

Of my destiny.”

Then vanity becomes history.

It’s not one or the other;

Neither one is lesser than the other.

Truth is often harsh and blunt;

So brace it with either eyes closed or open.

Consequences are like breakfast eggs:

Done the way you want ‘em.