Nothing Amiss Poem by Roy Ballard

Anemones are bitter to the tongue,
like flattery, though to the eye they're sweet,
a brisk confetti that the winds have flung
to grow at random all about our feet.
Much grander plants can please with looks or scents
but fail to charm us if we touch or chew;
for that which satisfies us in one sense
can seem deficient from another view.
In you I find all qualities accord
or if there be deficiencies unguessed,
harmonious notes have need of some discord
to give embellishment to all the rest.
Yet we have hours when nothing is amiss;
time cannot flow to higher points than this.