Meeting the Perfect Poem

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Meeting the Perfect Poem

I imagine that the perfect poem will walk
right off of the page and shake my hand
and tell me “here’s what I’m about.”
She will have honest eyes,
and as we talk
I’ll inevitably find
that she’s remarkably transparent,
a beautifully simple soul,
the kind
who finds it inherent
in her to laugh at a baby’s smile
or take true joy in crunching Autumn leaves
along September walks.

We’ll amiably shoot the breeze a while
until I feel I know her in full,
but right when I believe
that life really is that simple
                   she’ll leave
laid bare a strand on which I’ll pull
to unravel an intricate world beneath,
a tangled mess of complex truth and lies
where on looks like the other,
a world where underneath
the stark simplicity
of her outward beauty
there lies an intimate understanding that life
is not so simple and yet it is,
that life is but a web of paradox,
a constant tension between
the simple and complex
that we must navigate until the end.

And in this regard
the perfect poem will be
both philosopher and friend.


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