The rigours, the means, the might and emotion of being normal.
Normal in a world of flawless beauty,
the chipped vase on the counter,
the dent in the new car,
the flaw that is hidden, yet still there.
Imperfect in proportion, crooked, lopsided,
that I and you together can combine
the tiny fingers that we marvel at in wonder,
the sigh of a new infant
a perfect soul in an imperfect world,
who will grow to become imperfectly perfect.