Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks
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...
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