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Time and Beauty
written by: Steven M Baird
I think each morning is like a beautiful woman who knows you cannot harm her. She will gradually unveil things about herself you will not understand.
Ah, Cándido, you are an old man. What do you know about beautiful women? What do you know about mornings? You receive each with such melancholy. They follow the road and the sky, not you. If they see you at all, it is because you impede their way. Your youth is a ghost, and you watch and wait for things to pass. You feel their beauty more deeply than you can say.
Each morning renews my simple faith. The stillness reassures. The dust on my clothes can be brushed off, and my hands can be washed in clean water. The chickens are healthy, and I can still guide a knife blade and season a pot of beans. My sleep is deep and honest. But still, I question, and I wonder about time and beauty.
I have been called Priest and Father, and once, long ago, Husband. Now, I am uncertain of who I am or what I believe. I hear secrets, but they are not confessions. They are the rawboned words of light and dark, the spoiled hopes, the outcry of exhausted souls. I can offer no absolution. I smile, or weep, I offer my ear and my hands, and I comfort when I can. Now I am known as Cook and the Washer of Garments. I think that these are good things.
Morning has come to trust me again. I can do her no harm.
He features short pieces and nature photography in his blog Ordinary Handsome.