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Imperfect

I was thrilled when I saw this field of trees in regimented rows. I imagined myself taking one of those perfect images I've seen in photography books -- everything aligned and disappearing to a perfect vanishing point. Instead I ended up with this imperfection.

Musing:
From The Poems of Our Climate by Wallace Stevens
"Clear water in a brilliant bowl,
Pink and white carnations. The light
In the room more like a snowy air,
Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow
At the end of winter when afternoons return.
Pink and white carnations - one desires
So much more than that ...

There would still remain the never-resting mind,
So that one would want to escape, come back
To what had been so long composed.
The imperfect is our paradise."

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