Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks
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by Jane Kenyon I am the blossom pressed in a book， found again after two hundred years. . . . I am the maker， the lover， and the keeper. . . . When the young girl who starves sits down to a table she will sit beside me. . . . I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . . I am water rushing to the wellhead， filling the pitcher until it spills. . . . I am the patient gardener of the dry and weedy garden. . . . I am the stone step， the latch， and the working hinge. . . . I am the heart contracted by joy. . . the longest hair， white before the rest. . . . I am there in the basket of fruit presented to the widow. . . . I am the musk rose opening unattended， the fern on the boggy summit. . . . I am the one whose love overcomes you， already with you when you think to call my name. . . . |
