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