I’m sitting on the front porch being rebelliously imperfect.
Bird song, cool-warm sixty degree breeze, overcast-brilliant,
spring in winter. I don’t know how to right-side just now,
so I won’t. I’ll close my eyes, listen to each avian call
I cannot name and picture nothing. I am beginning to remember.
I cannot choose imperfection. I am indeed, and in a sea of it. That’s better.
Day 16