The Sheer Imperfection that is me.

Warm like this morning's breeze our hearts breathe quietly
as the Blue Jays in the garden feast on sunflower heads and seeds.
I watch you sleep, sunk deep into our pillows, your closed eyes
a million miles away from my smile.

I walk outside, and inhale the sun's first rays, as sweet bird songs
follow my footsteps across the yard.
Spiders scramble for cover as I loosen their threads to prevent
harm to the bees and dragonflies.

Faerouz's powerful voice rings through my silence and I think
of you, and the sheer imperfection that is me.

Transparent like the liquid blue of the sky above me
there is no way to hide the wounds and scars that I wear
like a bullet proof vest as you reach for me and try
to touch my proud, torrential heart.

Faerouz's melodious words carry my soul where my steps
can't walk and I feel light in spite of these heavy wings
that scrape along my path, and I know that you see
right through the sheer, bright imperfection that is me.

But you hold my hand anyway, and even though you are not sure
and I am not sure, you push away the spider silk that follows me
like a cloak and covers this burning, clear, so sheer imperfection
that is me.

Trudi Ralston.
September 12th, 2015.
For Michael.