Beauty is measured
by how much
my knees bend—
gravity’s quiet courtship
the earth insisting
on closeness

Not the tilt
or the slack of my jaw
the slow spill of light
on my cheek
the angle at which
I yield—
to the sheer amount
of oos and awes
to the slight dip of a petal
before it falls

Your beauty does not ask
for much—only for
a gesture of reverence—
explaining why
I am on my knees
every time
I see you