June evening 2 2013

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

Old Garden Gate

lean against the old garden gate
peer out into the green and exclaim at the flowers
tiptoeing into the dew drenched grass
we will hold hands and whisper
so the daisies won’t hear and take offense
but how could they
so sweet and innocent
as the bumble searches for their golden pollen
blushing at the intrusion