The Ideal

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Perfection can’t be found in man-made things,

Her mother held.  She could have stopped with “man”

And stopped her insight there.  The bees with stings

Are far from perfect since their stomachs can

Make honey.  Living beauty cannot be

As perfect as a marble statue with

A Myron’s chisel made.  The forms we see

Are not as perfect as the things of myth,

Like myth of cherry blossoms in the breeze

Of April.  April breezes are akin,

Much more akin to Christ than are the trees

And He more perfect risen with no sin.

  The things we cannot see are more unmarred,

    .Imagined springtime Versailles boulevard.

© Phillip Whidden