I Died for Beauty

by

Emily Dickinson

I died for beauty but was scarce

Adjusted in the tomb,

When one who died for truth was lain

In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?

"For beauty," I replied.

"And I for truth, the two are one;

We brethren are," he said.

When I look at anything in nature I see, nay, feel, the inherent beauty and, therefore, truth, in it.  Whether a fox or flower, rooster or rose, burro or barn, whatever, wherever.  If it be natural, real, honest and true, it be beautiful.  Pure and simple.

And if it be chained or maimed, caged or cornered, judged or jaded, it be false and sad.  Lost and lonely.  Lame and limp.  Alone.  Even with others.  Like the fox and his brother at the nature center.  Going crazy.  For chain link fences separate their souls from their roots.  And destroy their spirits in the process.  Unfair.  Un-true.  No Zen here.  Only zoos.