The decision to be perfect,

should not be lightly taken,

For in order, form and function,

often whimsy is forsaken,

A heap, a clump, a rogue-ish  pile,

or any wayward place,

with golden hues and cornflower blues,

which reclaim unwanted space,

Sings a song more eloquent,

than any opus grand ,

In nature’s own arrangement,

beyond what we have planned.