You ask for a poem. I offer you a blade of grass. You say it is not good enough. You ask for a poem. I say this blade of grass will do. It has

When I think of her sparkling face And of her body that rocked this way and that, When I think of her laughter, Her jubilance that filled

You lose your love for her and then It is her who is lost, And then it is both who are lost, And nothing is ever as perfect as you want it to

You ask why poets speak so often In the language of goodbyes. It’s because beginnings take them by surprise. Love comes and hammers them, And