perfection

Complexity.

Is it perfection?

Could perfection be the flame,

the bright bursting flame,

of a mape tree in autumn?

Leaves swirling,

red orange gold,

in infinite complexity of its own design?

Maybe a grand orchestra

a hundred strong,

with sounds and instruments of all imaginings,

orderly chaos at its finest?

Could Perfection be a feild,

flourishing in both flora and fauna,

everything differentiating,

each living thing more spectacular than the the last?

A flock of songbirds,

each singing its own,

filling the trees withe their calls?

Or maybe,

just maybe

Perfection can be found

in a lone golden maple leaf

dancing in the wind,

or as the single soaring note of a violin,

ringing clear and true.

As a single vivid poppy,

or a sparrows call at dawn.

Maybe Perfection is not complexity at all,

but something else.

Something different.

Simplicity.