What is pure?

Loving yourself, letting yourself be loved.

What is pure?
The rain, which for a moment binds the earth and sky?
The tree though grounded reaching to attain the sun?
I am neither,
I do not fall nor am I bound,
I am broken.
Enchanted webs dress me in translucent beauty,
Open, I stand before you, cracked just below the surface,
I know imperfection.
Your eyes rake over me, capturing every flaw,
Your hands tremble,
Do you yearn to hold me? Or break me?

Light shines in grey eyes, my image reflected,
Life seems less difficult,
Deep lines mark my skin, the carving splendour of age.
Proudly I stand there,
Arms out stretched into the sky, I will reach for the sun,
Homage to the rain, I fall into your arms.