Pangloss

All is as it should be.
The sun still rises,
thewaves crest and fall, some
Far off lunar energy pulling
Them into shore, the
Apple tree still blossoms, soft
Pink petals materializing from
Some insignificant pale green bud,
Nourished by the soil, enriched by death.
Clouds float lazily through
The sky in a place where it
Is still blue, a rich, pure
color, silent white megaliths;
Jays squawk to one another,
Singing a song for no reason
Other than the creation of
Music – vibrations of beauty, a
Song which finds its way through
The pure, crisp air before landing gently
Upon the eardrums of some unsuspecting being:
Man.