There is perfection to be found,
in lyrics, and language.
in paragraphs, and stanzas,
in chapters set in far away jungles
with characters whose names I can’t pronounce.
In your three-year old, as he sits cross-legged,
shaved ice in hand listening to musicians.
Perfection in the way your five-year old,
looks just like your baby brother did at that age.
Mostly it is in the songs that play,
The timing that’s just right,
The way summer feels when your windows are down,
the way the sky turns purple,
how the clouds go pink.
How the song is just for you,
as you make your way down a road so familiar,
that you let your mind wander,
down that road a ways,
to a whole other place and time.
