Sonnet 27 - Perfection

I love you. Too-small words for such great need;
still, they're all I have. Questing souls conceive
infinity, then buckle when the field
shows itself too big to name. To reprieve

our quailing minds, we take snapshots and think
them true. These photos, our words, serve up the
universe in small frames. We can not blink
or we lose the whole. We know what we see.

Perfection is absolute, static, cold.
As rigid as bone, it can never know grace.
Our flaws make us accessible. The gold-
brown fleck in your eye enthralls, denies peace.

It’s imperfection that makes us lovely.
I love you truly, if imperfectly.