I don’t believe
in perfection-
the tiniest petal
still retains a flaw-
a fissure,
a blemish,
the tracks of sun and rain.
Its heart
longing for completeness,
a closure,
a fullness
of perfect simplicity.
The meadow in late spring
filled with bright white daisies,
lavender sweet peas
pale pink honeysuckle-
a confluence of imperfect
perfection.
thecourseofourseasons 
Wonderful perspective. Maybe we need a verb action, too — a matter of perfecting, rather than being static.
Like Japanese ceramics .. the beauty lies in the flaws.
Your poem is perfectly wonder-full!
I love the idea of a confluence of imperfect perfection. That would be a meadow full of wildflowers for sure!
“a confluence of imperfect
perfection”
Love it.
Imperfection and randomness are so much more interesting than perfection and symmetry.
The lines of the poem with their ragged endings also seem to echo your words…
Even with the flaws, nature is imperfectly perfect ~