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. . . .