You are not beautiful, exactly.
You are beautiful, inexactly.

You let a weed grow by the tomato
and the tomato grow by the house.

So close, in the personal quiet
of a windy night,

It brushes the wall.
And sweeps away the day until 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 would not be yours. 

If I lost you,
I would have to ask the grass to let me sleep.