All this poetry

All this poetry
lies scattered across our lives:

thrown from the high places,
cast into the sea, like bread,

or thrown from the window
of a moving car

And all this time I have fooled myself,
thinking I was carving something out
of the distance,
making an impact

All those autumn evenings
I tried to wrap something up for you –
a gift in pale paper – but
it was just words, stuck together hurriedly
with tape

All those years
I tried to divert your attention,
and you kept laughing:
you were there,
under the apple trees

All this poetry
that makes up our lives
is you, after all,
reaching out for me,
redefining the extent of beauty
by using your eyes, and the parts
no-one can reach

I will stop writing now:
none of this needs to be said

It is quite clear:
everyone knows