When the rain falls
it gathers in the potholes
the dipped
not so evenly carved out
valleys
deep earth scars
that hold it
more tenderly
than Angel hugs
until unnoticed
drop by drop
they evaporate in a
Sun’s Shine
that can never be imagined
only experienced
so that it wishes
for yet another time
when the rain falls

I’ m    S  O  R  R  Y.       .       .

There really should have been a warning

before this video aired

ON     CHRISTMAS    MORNING,

no less.     .     .

but the thing I like about it

is the bare fact

I    am    completely

V          U          L          N           E           R            A           B          L          E

absolutely

undeniably

unequivocally

naked

bare-bummed

out in front of everyone

uncovered

OUT  THERE.        .       .

BELIEVE  ME

I know that this video

is a not-so-perfect

rendition of Sara Bareilles’

LOVE  IS  CHRISTMAS;

it’s flat.      .       .

it’s shot poorly.          .         .

it’s not just OFF Key,

but off the KEY CHAIN.          .          .

there’s sound of rain against the house

as-an-unfiltered-

one-shot-unedited-version-background.          .           .

the Point:

It’s   a   whole   lot   like   even   the   Best   of   Christmas:

P      E      R      F      E      C      T      L      Y          

 I      M      P      E      R      F      E      C      T

L O V E–

The real

warts,

scars

marred

nicked

blemished

and bloodied

is    that    way,  too.     .     .

THE  BOTTOMLINE:

It’s not what’s under the tree

or on the shelf

or coming directly from Amazon Prime

it’s   just   simply   that

LOVE  IS.       .       .

It’s   taken   me   quite   some   time

but I finally have found out

that LOVE isn’t on

The Calendar

that Love isn’t

a Date or a Day

that Love isn’t

a Season or a particular time.        .       .

It’s a  Lifestyle.     .     .

It comes to us at Perfectly Imperfect Moments.        .        .

L I F E T I M E S

can be lived in a single moment.          .        .

Quit trying to

GET   IT  RIGHT

and realize that IT

already IS

R       I       G       H       T—

a s    i s

and when you do that.          .          .

as Imperfectly Perfect it is

A    M E R R Y    C H R I S T M A S 

happens for AN EVER

and   E V E R.          .          .

and   not   a   bad

NEW  YEAR,

either—

no matter what the date or season.       .       .

We all have them, don’t we?

S              C              A              R              S  !

They always tell stories, don’t they?

Where we got them?

How long ago?

What they used to look like?

How they faded.       .        .

How,

How   they   still   hurt.        .        .

But isn’t this the truest of true?

The worst scars there are,

the ones that hurt the most,

aren’t the ones we wear on our sleeves,

or can ever really be seen.         .         .

they’re the ones we wear on our hearts,

aren’t they?

It’s an older movie now,

“THE      PERKS     OF     BEING      A      WALLFLOWER,”

2012;

the book, older still, by Stephen Chbosky,

1999,

and there’s a Classic line that’ll knock you to your knees and let the funk run out, or at least, uncover that bruised, scarred, still-very-much-beating heart

“WE      ACCEPT      THE      LOVE      WE      THINK      WE      DESERVE.”

Before I even hint of asking you,

is it

T     R     U     E

or

F     A     L     S     E,

maybe what I should really ask is,

“Are you willing to show your scars,

every minute,

 infinitesimal scar

your beating heart expands

with each pulsation?

Well.        .        . ?

T     R     U     E

or

F       A       L       S       E ?

Sorry.        .       .

you’ve got to

S                 H                 O                 W

your work,

just like some Fifth Grade Math homework.        .        .

P    R    O    V    E        I    T !

Do     Y O U,

Accept the Love

Y       O       U

think    YOU   deserve?

Want      to      see      my      scar ?

Ohhhhhhhhhhhh,

you   already   have—-

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,

your    scars    are    my    scars,

my    scars    are    yours.       .       .