To Dorothy

 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.

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