Perfection.

Something I wrote while taking in the scenery high in the Carpathian mountains.

A snow covered mountain
serving as the cushion for the needles
that are pines.

The sun is frozen in place 
the sky - a clear but stale pond,
no wind to break its surface.

Everything is perfect and pure
white and cold
unchanging and motionless.

Is this the price of being flawless?
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Then I don’t want any of it.