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…
–Photo by cjhallman
