A Perfect Picture
I am rearranging old books on a shelf.
Sunbeams fall onto the dust of my stirrings,
forming soft rolling pillars of glitter
in the muted light of early evening.
I think; It must be time to dust in here.
But there is a peaceful beauty in dust beams.
They give me time to pause, and reflect.
They are the history shed of ordinary living.
I look around my library; stacks of papers,
books, trophies, and family pictures abound.
My eyes are drawn to a little silver frame.
My son, Richard, when he was only three.
He was all smiles and white sunshine
standing in my summer tomato patch.
Richard was born with a little extra love,
embedded in the form of a chromosome.
Down's children can be so loving.
Sitting on the floor in my dusty library,
holding the smiling face of love,
I realize something important today.
A place doesn't have to be organized,
a thing doesn't have to be unblemished,
a person doesn't have to be perfect,
to be truly beautiful.
Shirley Alexander's Other Poems
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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