Returning to familiar spires,
The open streets and sandy stone,
Frame vibrant passings of long coats,
Which haven't seemed to ever pause,
But translate through the ages past.

Library grind,
Head down, hands busy,
Striking keys, writing neatly,
I'm looking to find,
Tasks done just maybe,
Ahead of the game, I've been lately,
Behind.

I see the cusp,
The mountain peaking beneath the gorgeous sky,
That makes small the wandering heights.

Jesus, I wish to ask you why you are so beautiful,
Yet such a question in its simplest form,
Is answered by a hefty pondering,
Are not all beautiful things so, because they seem a smidge like you?

Just a smidge like you:
And flowers take the breath away,
And smiles melt the heart,
And sunsets turn the hazy day to arresting clarity.

You are beautiful as brute fact,
Wholly good and just,
Wholly caring and amusing,
Wholly love and truth.

Wholly beautiful.