She is wabi-sabi,
a being of desolate beauty,
she is imperfection, impermanent, and incomplete,
a masterpiece crafted by time,
etched with the patina of existence,
a reminder that life’s flaws
are the very essence of its charm.
She is modest and humble,
a quiet force in a noisy world,
a thing of beauty that is unconventional,
her grace found not in grand gestures,
but in the simple elegance of being,
in the way she treads lightly on the planet,
appreciating every leaf, every whisper of the wind.
She walks between the surface and the air,
a specter of subtlety,
indifferent to conventional good taste,
just take a look at those shoes,
those hats, those flowing robes and ribbons,
a kaleidoscope of textures and colors,
each piece a story, a testament to her journey.
Often unseen on the subway,
she is small and compact,
a gentle spirit lost between the seats,
between large fat men and women with big boxes,
a delicate presence that slips through the cracks,
invisible yet profoundly felt.
She inspires connection,
bridges the psychic distances between souls,
her essence a balm for the weary heart,
often consumed by kittens and small drinks of tea,
simple pleasures that anchor her
in the midst of chaos and cacophony.
Vague and blurry, she approaches
states of nothingness and fog,
a living poem that dances on the edge of perception,
her form a hazy outline in pastel colors,
confused with the freshest of melons
and butternut squashes,
each curve, each hue a celebration
of nature’s quiet miracles.
She pares down to the essence
but doesn’t remove the poetry,
leaving just enough mystery,
just enough wonder,
to keep you captivated,
to keep you guessing,
to remind you that the beauty of life
lies in its unanswered questions,
in the spaces between certainty and doubt.
Wabi-sabi is often seen
in the corners of your vision,
a fleeting glimpse of something extraordinary,
a moment that slips away before you can grasp it,
a gentle reminder that perfection
is a myth we tell ourselves,
that true beauty is found in the worn, the weathered,
the places where time leaves its mark.
She is simply art,
a canvas painted by the hands of fate,
a sculpture carved from the raw stone of experience,
a melody composed of sighs and whispers,
a dance that sways to the rhythm of the heart.
In her, you see the world as it is,
not as it should be,
a mosaic of broken pieces
that form a picture more beautiful
than any flawless image could ever be,
a testament to the power of imperfection,
the grace of incompleteness,
the poetry of being wabi-sabi.
(C) Richard Gordon Zyne