I have banked the fires <br />of my body <br />into a small but steady blaze <br />here in the kitchen <br />where the dough has a life of its own, <br />breathing under its damp cloth <br />like a sleeping child; <br />where the real child plays under the table, <br />pretending the tablecloth is a tent, <br />practicing departures; where a dim <br />brown bird dazzled by light <br />has flown into the windowpane <br />and lies stunned on the pavement-- <br />it was never simple, even for birds, <br />this business of nests. <br />The innocent eye sees nothing, Auden says, <br />repeating what the snake told Eve, <br />what Eve told Adam, tired of gardens, <br />wanting the fully lived life. <br />But passion happens like an accident <br />I could let the dough spill over the rim <br />of the bowl, neglecting to punch it down, <br />neglecting the child who waits under the table, <br />the mild tears already smudging her eyes. <br />We grow in such haphazard ways. <br />Today I feel wiser than the bird. <br />I know the window shuts me in, <br />that when I open it <br />the garden smells will make me restless. <br />And I have banked the fires of my body <br />into a small domestic flame for others <br />to warm their hands on for a while. <br /> <br /> <br />Anonymous submission<br /><br />Linda Pastan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/meditation-by-the-stove/
