|
I'm thrust into deserts
everyday
by the broken cup,
the shrunken sweater,
the cherished table's water stain.
Perfection molts,
litters its ugly
outgrown skin
as evidence.
Am I really to blame?
The scar on my son's
silken cheek,
a playground wound,
still searing, red—
demands I look
at what could have been.
Flaws flower
in unrelenting sun.
Once I begin to complain,
I will never be done. |
