Her bobber floated,
Quietly she waited,
and waited.
Her line was suddenly tugged,
and the bobber was gone.
Quickly she pulled back,
She reeled it in.
She looked at the fish,
Its scales,
blue and green,
with a small hook in its mouth,
and a small scar on its fin.
She threw it back.
She looked into the distance,
and said that it wasn't the right one,
because it wasn't perfect.
Again she quietly she waited,
and waited.
Again her line tugged,
and the bobber was gone.
She pulled back,
She reeled it in.
When she saw the fish,
Again she threw it back,
It had a ripped fin.
Once more she waited,
and waited.
The next fish came,
and again was not perfect.
Again it was thrown back.
She sat in despair,
Wondering,
Thinking about perfection.
She remembered a scar,
A scar on her hand,
From the day she fell.
She was no longer perfect,
Just like the fish,
The first fish,
The second fish,
The third fish.
There was no perfection,
None in which she sought,
not even herself.