Waving in the Wind

Sometimes I forget how beautiful you are. I seem to lose sight of the hands that hold me up and think I'm floating in thin air and will eventually stumble back. I see more cold mornings than the afternoon suns. I fall into this occurring nonsense scheduled to make me feel secure and that my life is leading to something. I become a wind-up toy and my key will rust. Sometimes I forget how I am beautiful to you.

But your people with warm smiles and hands waving joy in the sun kissed air, how can I forget them? Waving at me, waiting for me to come see them. Waiting for a single person to lift them high in the sky so they feel like a bird soaring for the first time. Little songbirds always singing with their note that they were written for. Because when I see them half broken and bandaged, torn from wounds, and still waving the wind, how should I help but see beauty? The darkness welcomes them and instead they allow light to caress their faces, smoothing their smiles to perfect shape. Hearts full of laughter and gladness that they are alive. Sifting through catastrophes and problems and finding the gold pieces of truth. If these people are more than overwhelmingly glorious to me, then I can be the same in your eyes. You are beautiful, and I see your glory. I want to touch it, be able to feel the face of love. The coarse-skinned nation you've created.