Somehow Perfect

It is a room you fall in love with as you do your work.
A toymaker’s house, with just enough,
with space and light and lacking a television.
White walls. Art hung sparingly.
Nothing in the decorating follows the rules
and yet, it falls together like lovers after a long day.
Somehow perfect, even when it isn’t.

About this poem.

About the room, a place I had the privilege to photograph for a set of Advertisements. The minute I walked in, I fell in love. “This,” I said to myself, “is perfect.” Or about love, which so often comes out of nowhere, does not make sense on paper, rarely is perfect, except of course, when it is.

Tom