Beauty lasts in places
where finders keepers no longer exists
because the home-front finders
can't decide between honeysuckle or Heineken
where the mistakes are made
in brush patterns on the floor, boldly
disseminating all the hell
for all to see
where tractors plow fields sown
with dreams of glorious anthems based
solely on the discreet and powerful words
of a preacher or a poet
where things aren't what they seem,
hidden thoughts behind realities
when Frost comes to mind,
and everything is fine.