Beauty Is Edifying, Once We’re Done With It

Dusty pale blue to a faint lavender band,
To frail pink blurred to almost yellow, then
Fading into palest dusty blue again. Wind

Barely stirs the branch that holds a moon,
A slip of evaporating white, gone in light.
Scent of dry pine needles in damp grass.

Oh, our senses are old postcards, sent
From an old-fashioned era’s tinted scenes
Already winnowed down from the plethora

Of waves involving dawns and evenings
Over the lost scenic seas. Winnowed then
To phrases here. Pure, snowy white flour

Of language, life several steps cut down
From life, fine stairways cut into the face
Of the chalk cliffs, fixed for breakfast.