Imperfect

Imperfect, marred flower,

should I pass you by,

look for another

more worthy of this

camera’s eye?

Technically, you are not even

whole,

a story you withhold

would fill in the gap,

but literally, physically,

that part will never grow back.

I wonder if this missing piece

was selflessly given

or tragically taken,

a sudden explosion

or slow disintegration.

I wonder if you are marred

inside,

if you have hollow spaces,

pain,

you hide.

Does the breeze bring

the sting of hurtful whispers,

the sun reflect the sneers,

from the others?

I respect your tenacity;

no evidence of giving up.

I admire your self-love,

the way you hold yourself up,

head high,

boldly,

challengingly,

despite it,

despite them,

spite-free.

Your colors seem brighter

than the rest,

your uniqueness intrigues me,

so much more is your

less.

All of those others

deemed so pretty

blend together in a spectacular sea

of sameness.

I passed by them all,

their pictures I did not take.

You are the only one

who drew me near,

not by mistake.

You are the one

who filled the lens,

and my thoughts,

and my pen,

caught me

forever

with your

imperfect

perfection.

 

Poem and image ©Laura Denise