Here in the imperfection

The chatter of a busy child

Duplo digging,

Tumbles down the stairs;

The sound of concentration

From the kitchen.

A small artist is at work

Between black lines,

While poppies torn from

Peach tissue paper,

Rest pretty amongst the breakfast bowls,

Cereal thick with milk.

I am hiding, amidst abandoned

Blankets, rumpled.

I watch the tangle of cornflowers sway in the window,

Meadow transposed,

Talk with starred sapphire crowns,

Where weeds creep up unchecked,

Blurring the edges.

And the gaps between emergency tower rescues and

Colouring catastrophies,

Lengthen. And hold.

My head is itching. Again.

Can I live free here in the imperfection?

Between the nits and the wildflowers?

My flowers are tatty, quick to fade.

Beauty that cannot be held,

Will not stay long in the vase.

Nothing is ever finished long.

Tuck me in here, on this rainy afternoon.

I will let you water the garden again.

You do not get tired like me.

Nothing is wasted in your hands Jesus.

No imperfect flower empty of seed.

Each bloom falls to death

Yet I wait, assured of her scattering seed

Which will wild up the waiting ground with life.

Nothing is wasted.

Imperfection in your hands is

Nothing less than canvas

For a miracle.

Free me to live here in the imperfection.

In the borderlands.

Between miracle and mess.

Between death and life.

Oh distracted heart of mine,

Do not attempt to hold flowers that were

Never supposed to be held.

Let imperfection fall through fingers that cling

To the one who does not fail, fade or fall.

The one who is finished. Perfect.

Here I’ll hold you.

Between the nits and the wildflowers.