There are no degrees of beauty, no gradations,

only what’s pure and true.

Like Plato’s ideals, reaching down into the infinite within us,

or maybe beauty comes from deep inside and spreads

out into the world—perhaps it is a combination of both,

but I really don’t know.

When you’re alone and suddenly come across snowdrops

in the field or wood, no matter under sun or cloud,

they brighten the day and disposition.

A long, long, time ago, my grandmother took me gently

by the hand to look out a window, sometimes she led me

outside under the brightest moon, to tell me snowdrops

appeared were the light of stars had kissed the earth at night.

And sometimes they appeared with winter’s last snowflakes,

from under a bed of snow, to let us know it’s spring.

She told me to remember, so that I would always know

what’s true.

Stephen Cipot

Garden City Park