Beautiful

In the mystery of breath
we find life.
And I am turned
one cell to the next
into another being;
An entirely new structure
which, somehow,
looks miraculously the same.

Yet when such an image
stares itself too long in the mirror
new blemishes appear-
new finite wrinkles
that tell of
a distant past;
That tell of nothing
but the present.

When we glimpse at ourselves -
that is, when we have the blessing
to glimpse at our image
with new eyes
-
we begin to realize how
foolish we have been to count
ourselves as 'plain'
and are freed
from the vain attempts to
turn aside our vanity.

Instead
we catch
out the corner of our eye
Beauty.

Tell yourself that story.
Tell yourself daily.
And continue to hold on dearly
to that image,
seared so vividly and delicately in
your brain

When you first called
yourself, "beautiful".