Nothing is more perfect than
the pure, untouched beauty of nature.
The things man can never make, or re-create,
no matter how hard we try.

Paintings and photographs do sunsets
no justice.
How can you expect to copy the
exact shades of the sky with a
paint palette?
The creamy oranges and sun-kissed yellows;
lavenders so soft you reach out to
touch it, only to have it slip through your fingers
and fade to a whisper.

There is something magical about
the perfect rose. The petals swirl around,
an endless pattern; overlapping and overlapping,
hugging to form curves.
The fragments between your fingertips are impossibly soft;
velvet feels like sandpaper in comparison.

I stepped outside onto my porch on the first
day of summer. The warm air hugged me gently,
the scent of fresh grass and flowers clung to my skin.
I looked up at the sky, a color so rich and deep
that blue couldn't even begin to describe.
White clouds fluffed and bellowed out into
pieces; I jumped and tried to catch them in my hands,
only to have them slip through my fingers.

I opened up my mouth as wide as it could go,
and swallowed as much magnificence as I could.
I tasted the perfection on my tongue, warm and sweet.
I knew I had to commit as much of this beauty as I could
to my memory, to carry with me wherever I go.

After all, we won't always be here
to drink it all in.