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. . . .