The moon, her brilliant disc lending
night a bit of light, is valleyed and ridged—

those Bailey’s Beads distort even eclipses’
geometry. The sun, too, with flares

and filaments is no flawless circle, nor
its heat even-searing. In a crooked smile,

a cat’s nicked ear, a child’s misspelled word
we glimpse what is endearing. With these

foibles we walk our days’ cracked paths,
accepting even the treachery of unfinished

edges. So, when perfection visits, we 
worship its transcendence, gather
 
in wreaths and cambric shirts, swoon
at Stonehenge’s solstice splendor.

people watch the rising sun