Nothing is Perfect

The first frost
Fell upon the garden
And turned today,
The spider's web
To a crystal filigree
Of jewels,
Sugar powdered
The pink petalled rose,
Forced the grasses
To a pointed march
Of sharpened spears
And threw
The crimson berry
Into sharp relief.

Then came the sun
Turning silver
Into dripping liquid gold
And within the space
Of one single warming breath
Turned back
The web to tissue,
The petals limply laid
Still pink
But softly bruised,
The grasses wilted
Under foot,
And yet
The berry,
Licked by liquid
Became a shining crimson
Magnificent without the gold.

How came the sun
To turn a moments glory
Common place
Where once was beauty
To behold
Was by adversity
Enhanced by frosty cold?

And there the blood red berry
Upon the thorn
Is forever present
Beyond the rime,
A counterpointed form.

JL Nov 17 14:15