The idea of a random nature has no place here, for beauty happens not by chance but by careful persuasion, no less than by a composer’s quill, or a sculptor’s chisel. Is not beauty, Beauty’s own expression? What wonder then holds this life together, this great masterpiece of Mind? Constellations of Earth, gathered upon a stem; what language you contain! With elegant symmetry the delicate interdependence of force and color, though dynamic, is stable, as if the whole is held within a single, bright thought. Ah, but to meet the eye of the artist, who’s fingers spun these fluttering petals of scented silk, who’s careful touch placed each leaf’s tilted vein, just so, I would ask her, why gold? Why green? Why embody such delicate devotion? Where rests this hidden gardener who claims nature’s palette as her own? If for a single moment I could greet the One who holds the art of Earth in her care, I would look long and deep into her eyes and listen to what music she sings within herself. I would ask, what perfect heart beholds her own beauty.