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