Fragment 10 Poem by RIC BASTASA

Perfection
Where is this perfection?
In our fingers
That do not have the same sizes?
In our feet that stumble?
In our eyes that do not see too well?
In our skin that sheds off from time to time?
In our broken selves?
In our shattered days, our past haunting
Our future dwindling like
Stones powdered by
Time’s hammering
Hours

Perfection
You feel it sometimes
It is there
It is not yet here
It waits for us
And we are not rushing still
We are frozen
Like trees in winter
Come summer
We shall wilt like twigs
And leaves

Perfection remains
A quest
For the waters
To quench our thirsts
And it is not yet here
Our wells are dry
The rivers too muddy
The sea too salty
The spring polluted

Where then?
Wait, just wait,
He has the answer.