Perfection Exists In The Moment

I was looking for some of my old poems in some journals this morning when I found this quote from August 25, '83: "Perfection exists in the moment."
I explained it as "The thought that came to me while photographing the windmill." Of course I had to go back and read what I had been doing and what windmill I was taking photos of.
Back then I was a much better keeper of the journal. I wrote my thoughts almost daily along with where I was and what I was doing. 

"Just discovered I'm sitting under a huge choke cherry tree and it is loaded." Ah, I remember that. I was on the west side of Lake Binder, almost to the north end. There was a wooden windmill just west of where I was parked. Wooden windmills in Iowa are rare. "I'm coming back here tomorrow with camera and bucket." (For the choke cherries.)

"This, then, is the way I would spend my time if it were possible. I walked back to look at the windmill,  intending to size up the possible camera angles, when I heard geese and realized there was a pond west of the well. At first I imagined the marsh to be too wet to get through but decided to try because of our extremely dry summer. Made it! Slipped up to the pond and over the bank - frightened and counted sixteen geese and goslings. Makes me miss Mac and Molly. Left them alone and walked to a clearing beneath the willows a distance away.

Such a short walk/time, but what I saw -- a hummingbird moth on some musk thistle flowers, a heron flying over the lake, a snake on the rocks near the water's edge, clams, frogs, broken clam shells in the shallows, turkey buzzards. A totally satisfying experience. No! Not satisfying, because it makes me want more! I want to bring a tent and sleeping bag and canoe and whatever to spend at least a night and day."
I never did at that location, but did enjoy many such camp out trips with my granddaughters years later at Lake Icaria, Viking Lake and Mormon Trail Lake. And I did go back the next day to take pictures of the windmill and pick choke cherries. (Maybe someday I will find those windmill photos. If so, I'll scan them and edit this blog to include them.)

The poem I was looking for was in another journal. Written 2/15/77, it has nothing to do with the above. --

            Missing You

Another glass of wine
     -- unnecessary --
Coming down from
         an evening
Of friends and music
      -- missing you.

I find it hard
     to believe
You are such a part
     of my life
      Already
    -- missing you.

Fifty-sixth street
       Exit
And late night phone
   Conversations
And the aroma of
   Revelation.

You're not supposed
       to mean
This much to me.
You're supposed to be
         Safe
Someone I couldn't love
       Too much.

So why am I
   Missing you?
Why is it harder than
   I thought to be?
Why do I keep
   Missing you?