Andrew Wyeth— Crows— 1944
The Secret of Beautiful Things
So many times I’ve wanted to tell you
the secret of beautiful things,
but I’ve only been able
to think them in your name,
so that every recognition, aching to be
articulate, silently becomes you.
Tonight, when I dream, I will find you
in some treasure that I’ll barely remember
tomorrow, and yet, I will recognize,
in these visions of myself,
you, and that which is known as holy—
holy speaking without words.
You will be found in the single crow
laughing me into the building, and
in numinous horizons, and
in the beginnings of blossoms,
and in the endings of old trees.
You will be found in the lonely words
hiding in poorly bound books, and
in tired cafe conversations, and
in the clinking of spoons,
and in the bottoms of coffee cups.
You will be found again and again
signaling to me my place in the world,
amid the grace of the ordinary—
ordinary, claiming by name
that which it is not and
could never be.