My idea of beauty is not like hers.
But that don’t me that we can’t be together.
She; my love laughs
At the slightest hint of accident or slip.
She finds beauty in the lows and leavings of life.
She doesn’t see light in the morning
Slipping through the trees
Like the first day of heaven.
She doesn’t smile at the chirp of birds,
More at the lunatic basket-weavers
Who sit and smile
And twiddle their thumbs and toes.
My idea of beauty is she.
Hers is of me.