Make It So

I am not a poet, but loving makes me so.

In between the words you give are webs I cannot alone know.

In the dying of the day, and the breaking of the dark,

Though bitter tendrils climb me, through clouds your dawning spark.

I’m not the spotlight darling, but you-giving lights me up.

Find the center twixt your beacon and my costumed makeup.

Then in echoes that are bouncing back-and-forth the seesaw way,

The weaving tug we’re warring becomes a third birthday.

I protest I’m not your lover; the fearing makes me strange.

Desiring makes the second. Both betray a lively range.

But you give and I receive, and somewhat middle grows:

Yes, I alone am nothing, but nothing-giving loves you so.