I am the blossom pressed in a book，

    found again after two hundred years. . . .

    I am the maker¹， 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 pitcher² until it spills. . . .

    I am the patient gardener

    of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

    I am the stone step，

    the latch³， 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 musk⁴ rose opening

    unattended， the fern on the boggy⁵ summit. . . .

    I am the one whose love

    overcomes you， already with you

    when you think to call my name. . . .