Friday, February 19, 2016

Friday - Practice

I am well practiced at the Art 
Of walking around in the dark
Watching the possibilities of the day
Dissipate as so much summer heat
Rising off the blackened road
And the coolness of the night sink in
While gazing into other people's lives
Seeing minute differences that gather questions 
In the questioning of the back of the mind
Am I happy the way I live
Should I be storing my clothes in other ways
And I, I, who have hated every moment
Every breath and fiber of my life
Am now punch drunk in love
With every question every dirty dish 
Polluting my kitchen sink with requirements
And every silly random act of kindness along the way
Reminding me of my mother's saying
Practice does not make perfect
Only perfect practice could make perfect and we are everything but perfect
But as the moon rises to greet us
Those who pay attention to its quirky smiles
And I giggle about trying to find the one mistake 
In every Turkish rug hand-lovingly-made
The wind sighs and whispers
It does not matter that perfect we cannot be
We have love to practice and to share