inexactly

You are not beautiful, exactly.
You are beautiful, inexactly.
You let a weed grow by the mulberry
and a mulberry grow by the house.
So close, in the personal quiet
of a windy night, it brushes the wall
and sweeps away the day till we sleep.

A child said it, and it seemed true:
"Things that are lost are all equal."
But it isn't true. If I lost you,
the air wouldn't move; nor the tree grow.
Someone would pull the weed, my flower.
The quiet wouldn't be yours. If I lost you
I'd have to ask the grass to let me sleep.
[Marvin Bell, 'To Dorothy'. Bell was named Poet Laureate of Iowa in 2000--the first ever to hold that post.]

---

you let me make you

everything

and then you left me
standing,
alone,
hands empty
and heart full of

nothing

but spaces
permanently reserved
for you.