A perfect flower at the edge of the lake,
far from the shores full of tourists,
deep in the thicket of lilly pads,
one of the few not yet damaged
by sun and storms, every petal exquisite,
a place to let my gaze fall, a place
to hold that gaze long enough to ignore
the decay and anger, ignore the tourists
and taste testers, not unlike the way you zero
in on your lover’s lips when she talks,
soft, kissed with color, animated in her almost smile,
her words mattering less than her mere existence,
another perfection in a noisy world,
God showing himself, always,
in the details.
About this poem
In the beginning of my rebirth, my therapist taught me the art of focusing on the details when the world around me was overwhelming, because no matter how awful I feel, there are beautiful details surrounding me, details to savor and remind me how good God can be. I have this theory that even hell has flower boxes.
The picture was taken at the far end of nearby Emerald Lake.