Sometimes,
when I look out of the window
on the first floor
of my tiny, tin box toy house,
I wonder if the view
is just for me.
If somebody else looked out,
what would they see?
Maybe I imagine
the scene
that’s above and below my dream
like state.
Vision projected from
a mind far gone
from another’s reality.
But, although there is bountiful beauty
in what I do behold;
rolling, royal hills all dressed
in deep sea green
with a fine mist
just brushing the tops of the peaks
in a friendly greeting
as it drifts by,
there are also imperfections;
a curling at the edge
like an antique postcard;
its message long faded.
A hint of black stealing across
the green
summer
of the too perfect scene.
There can be no perfect
without the imperfect
& accepting this fine duality,
we surrender
our senseless complicity with
a need for impossible bliss