Perfection

I know that my certainties are
as capricious as the sky-
I know that Perfection is as elusive
and changeable as a drifting, molten sunset-
but tonight I can't help but think
that there is nothing as perfect
as the heady scent of these apple blossoms,
drenched in the golden light
of a dying day,
white and pure in their soft virginity,
trembling and nodding shyly on thin stems
in the evening breeze.
I know this is a lie, Perfection-
but tonight I cannot help but believe in it.