Imperfection

Each sunrise,
dark reds and purples penetrating black skies,
fleeting in beauty:
a daily loss.

For, though perfect as we were,
we know not how to capture
overpowering hues of red.

How much I wanted one instant in time—
one soft, reflective cloud,
to hover,
and not burst.

Alas, though memory and photograph
reflect one instant eternally,
a continuous moment in time,
the wind must blow;
the sun must rise.

And yet—we may still find the sunrise beautiful
though only in distant memory,
so too are we a remembrance
on gray, sunless days:
perfect memories the silver lining
in a darkening sky.