The Thing is the Thing

The bell is struck by the hammer
But it’s your bones who echo the chime

What visage, so simple that it has no outward symbol,
May ripple and ripple

There is no limit to the beholder’s eye
For whom beauty is abound

And, as such, though many may deter and deny
Each perceived fleck of gold is namelessly divine

The foxes in the wood knots
The beasts in the clouds

These are as real as beauty
They are final in a smile.