Made me realize the truth:
That every stamp is perfect,
But should be left unused.
Anytime I tried to dip
The perfect stamp in ink,
The imprint was off balanced,
asymmetrical, out of sync.
Again! Again! Never give in,
Words in ink that I’d replay;
However, it’s hard to say
How much ‘never’ decayed.
I reused the best stamps,
The ones that truly stood out,
‘Till their lines were flat and feckless
And I’d have to learn to live without.
My collection had run dry,
When I separated good from bad
And looked at others piles,
Looked at what they had.
All the things I needed,
To complete my stamp collection.
Everything would come together;
A pattern with direction.
When I thought I’d have no more;
As I looked at my good pile,
Someone stumbled upon me,
Tried to offer me a smile.
He had no words on his lips,
No speech in his cheeks,
But a stamp in his hand,
A stamp so oblique.
Was no fit to my collection,
But was beautifully inlayed;
A rose with perfect shape
Peerlessly weighed.
I dipped the stamp in ink
And placed it on the pad,
But before I could reveal,
The unknown result I had,
I opened up my lips
And my voice had begun,
“This is the last stamp I’ll use,
I pray it’s a good one.”
© 2010 The Still Air
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