Pictures hanging on the wall, Oil replica of mountain and tree.
"Come, see what I have done,
let me show you the forest and all it's beauty"

But beauty is the smell of pines
across the meadow,
The sound of the brook over mossey pebbles.

Beauty is the burning of your lungs
from the thin air and hard climb,
The squrrel woke up from his nap
scolding the world for his troubles.

Beauty is the hawk floating overhead watching, then diving,
swooping down and grabbing its prey.

Beauty is the chill in the air,
the orange in the sky, warning you
to finish your hike before the end of the day.

How can your canvas facade
show the forest in all its beauty,
when I can only sense a fraction
with my eye?

You can't capture beauty
and put it framed on the wall,
Not the true strength of it
no matter how hard you try.