And ultimately, a little poem to my wife, titled 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 to grass to let me sleep.