Beauty is fragile, juicy as the peach cobbler my grandmother sets on the sill. The river tumbling south, a homeless bluesman whose guitar mutters to lovers under an August moon. The sun rising, a red hand sliding up the dress with sky blue tights over downy thighs. Mist, water that holds me when I lie down to watch a spider stringing diamonds in the air. …A lover has called to tell me there is beauty in knowing when to come home.