Briefly it Enters and Briefly Speaks

by Jane Kenyon


I am the blossom pressed in a book,
opened 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

I am the 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 there when you think to call my name