Start with the silk masterpiece of a spiderweb tenaciously spanning a doorjamb, and shimmering with flecks of mica–luminescent diamonds of mathematical precision that have never known dust. Later it becomes grime made linear, a blemish to be wiped away by an impatient broom. Splendor descending into lowness. Chalk paintings blurred by rain. Spring blossoms scattered by the wind. Feathers, scales, butterfly wings–all washed colorless by time, desiccated by age and decomposition.
Beauty happens now. In the instant someone calls for you to look at a rainbow or passing butterfly. Blink and you miss the passing of the dandelion seed catching the light and bursting into supernova. Close your eyes and the shooting star rains by unnoticed.
It's O.K. Open them up again. It will all happen again in a minute.