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