Just get to the point,
he said.
But which point,
she wondered.
Is there just one
and how do we decide
which one it is,
or should be?Just make your point
and let’s be done with it,
he stated.And her mind wandered
from that room,
to another point-
a rock at the edge of a finger
of land jutting into an ocean.
Watching water merge with sky,
she rested on that point
as waves dashed around her.Okay, she said,
after what seemed to him
too long a time,
this is my point:
We choose our beauty,
be it jagged and dark
or smooth or gleaming.But what makes something
beautiful?
We must have a standard,
he pressed.Yes, she agreed,
and then imagined
another point,
a clearing near the top
of a wooded mountain
reached only by foot
after a five hour hike.I want to tell you about a place
I once visited, she said.
Let me pull the threads of
a picture-memory
and then
let’s sort
for words
that point
toward
something
like beauty.
“Credo” By Virginia Small
Connecticut Review 2006 Vol. XXVII No. 2
Featured Image “Abandoned Farm” by Dave Dreimiller
On Tiffany Creek 