Perfect
A Poem
A carousel of horses, floating and sinking,
always brought back memories of childhood happiness.
My life would always be rich and safe,
when I was in that magical place.
Every afforded opportunity, I would beg
to ride those horses once again,
and reach for the climax of that elusive golden ring.
Someone would firmly
be holding on to me,
for dear life,
so that I wouldn’t fall and break in two.
Life was perfect.
But time flew, and money never grew
on trees or in droves of birds and bees,
and life was never as rich, as my tainted dreams.
And many times, I got hurt, when I fell,
as rains flooded the park and the carousel.
I soon came to learn, that nothing is perfect.
There’s something mystical about imperfection,
cracked illusions, broken pieces,
that undulate between shadow and light.
Authentic wedges fettled back in place,
though never truly revived in beauty and grace,
only in vulnerability and fragility.
I’ve become attracted to things broken,
mangled, damaged, flawed.
The rough edges and innocent imperfections
that resist being fixed or restored.
Diamonds in the rough,
things as they truly are,
unfiltered, natural,
blemished affection,
Japanese aesthetics
call it wabi-sabi.
The other side of perfection.
© Connie Song 2020
