Imperfect’s What We Know

a sonnet


As weather shifts with seasons, so must I.
It seems the Earth keeps turning in my head.
Behind my eyes, the storms intensify,
to form these tears I never like to shed.

My Love, look deep into these troubled eyes.
I’m here beyond the clouds that choke my light.
Like thunder cries in broken summer skies,
we yell, we hurt, not knowing why we fight.

Can we resuscitate our dying love
that feels as cold and still as fallen snow?
We’ve wasted half a lifetime dreaming of
the perfect love, when imperfect’s what we know.

It’s always you, my dear, who makes me whole,
who dances with the seasons of my soul.