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. . . .