This perfect is mine
Not the valley’s
Not the light’s
Not the clouds’
I remind myself
True happiness
Is found in finding
The perfect in everything
Refreshed by the cool breeze
Chilling the fire
Of the hot sun
Atop the curvilinear delights
Of hillocks dappled
With grasses and pines
Where even infinity seems so close
I could touch it
Right there
As the curve of the Earth
Rounds the line
Where ocean meets the sky
For every thing
The creatures made
Five other things
Were thrown away
For every turn
Of every cog
The fuel they burned
Created smog
‘Til over time
Before too long
In fact, before
The fuel was gone
Their world could not
Sustain their waste
The climate changed
With break neck pace
A formation
Of pilings
Long past utility
Though still
They throw
A striking pose
Just before
The curtain
Falls
Perhaps, so can I
Accept the beauty
In what is revealed
Keep faith in the obscured
Call it a canyon
Or call it a rut
A pretty enough rut, you say
Perhaps… but still a rut
So I scamper out
Leaving a trail
Of dusty memory
Seeking the open vista above
The expanse of the big sky
A land of possibility
Some things
Were born of the tempest
And their beauty lies
In the storm
Pix to Words 