As a teenage boy, I didn’t realize
The degree to which some girls, every day,
Turn themselves into works of art.
I only ever saw
The finished product, and I
Assumed girls looked the way they did
Having expended as little effort as I had.
(My sister was much older, and
Taught me nothing useful about girls.)
My father, however, did tell me,
By the time I was in college, that
It was possible, even if I was buying a date dinner,
That she had spent more on the evening than I had.
My father was, among many other things,
An artist, a painter –
He loved beauty, and
Understood it in ways I have yet to.
The creation of self is
An activity we all indulge in, every day;
Some of us more consciously than others.
Now, when I turn to look at you
On a day like this,
Your beauty is all the more striking,
Because I know it consists both
Of who you are
And you are choosing to become.
And it is miraculous