Perfection

I wonder why you think that I would get angry
over a dirty mug left on a table?
Would you hate me if I left my towel on the floor?
I am always too distracted to care
about house-keeping . . .
if it wants to get done . . .. it will .. .. someone
will do it . . .
and in my home its usually me . . .  if I wish . . .
or it doesn't get done . . . and if it doesn't
I guess I don't really care.

You should see me brushing the kitty litter off
of my bedding before going to sleep at night,
my cats seem to think that my bed is theirs .  ..
and it is hard to get them to roll over
so I can crawl in  to sleep.
But they are always so warm and cuddly
that I like it that way . . .
So I don't care about perfection . . .
It frightens me . . . the thought of it
taking over - for if perfection moves in -
then there's no room left for me
for I am so far from perfect.

And its like letting the wildflowers move
into my garden;
they don't yell at me in refined voices,
"Feed me, pull my weeds . . . ow ow the sun
is hurting me and those bugs are biting me . . ."
No - my wildflowers are so strong
and self sufficient that they
barely give me a glance when I walk through,
and the insects are cooperative
with them in every way - so

. . . . no one gets hurt
and I have no back-breaking yard work and I have found that
its all designed for my joy anyway so
I never-more worry about perfect gardens
because what ever perfection is . . .
is in the eyes of the beholder after all.

or is that beauty in the eyes of the beholder?