For the beauty of the earth
is not the transience
of a flower in bloom or bird in flight,
but the permanence
of undergrowth: The fecund matter
in which creatures crawl and creep.
The very compost heap
of life, without which the world
would be a barren rock,
with no-one to appreciate the sight.
For the beauty of the skies
is not the blue perfection
of refracted light or fractal sculpted cloud,
but the rejection
of gravity: The deep black well
in which cosmonauts climb and fall,
seeking to escape this ball
and chain; without which ambition
to reach up for the stars,
we would remain in compost, never proud.
