In the realm of the physical, all that is made
Is by natural process. The force that controls
Every act of creation is sheer perfection
Yet that which is created invites detection
Of all that is imperfect. We temper our goals
With a sense of reality aptly portrayed.
One need not be uprooted to bear proper fruit.
Images of The Maker apparently seen
Through a wide spectrum of nearly infinite range
Can’t account for how good things can look rather strange.
But such things in comparison cause one to glean
A firm sense of acceptance, though not too acute.
May I take imperfection as part of the whole
Of the perfect existence of which I’m a part?
Every image is mental. Words that may ensue,
As the mind generates them, can render a view
That becomes more aesthetic and kind to the heart.
The perfection of nature is that of my soul.