I loved someone who was not
beautiful to the world,
whose labors were twice as hard,
whose wishes had gone unanswered,
Someone who would never grow up and leave,
or date, or marry;
someone who had to cling
to the love that was available
without artifice, without
polish or grace,
not destined for all that life
has to offer,
but innocent in spirit
despite so many ragged edges,
disappointments,
and pain of loss,
someone
who had to carry on anyway,
and be a good sport about it.

I loved someone who was not
beautiful to the world,
someone who was sometimes hurt by me,
someone who was often unkind to me,
someone who I didn't know at all
except in that general way,
when you decide that everyone
is pretty much like you.

I often fought with this person
and sometimes ridiculed this person
I loved,
and there were often
long floorboards of silence
between our closed doors.

I loved someone who would never
be in style,
except that there was
a goodness in her heart
that made some other people smile
and when they did, I took their love
and let it stand for mine,
knowing that my poor love inside
 
would always
be the richest love of all.