I am not handsome, except in your eyes.
Tattered as I am with age and interruptions,
you hold up a kindly mirror in your eyes
to dress me in a youthful livery long ago forfeited.
When asked how you find my ripe charm
in such a disarrayed pattern as I am,
the response is not as important or lovely
as your willingness to reply at all.
Your abundance makes of my famine a phantom.
Your green refreshing waters no mere ornament,
they rush over me like a spring shower
that is warm and exciting.
And when I lie down tonight in weary thought
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