Linda Pastan

(1932 - / New York / United States)

Meditation By The Stove


I have banked the fires
of my body
into a small but steady blaze
here in the kitchen
where the dough has a life of its own,
breathing under its damp cloth
like a sleeping child;
where the real child plays under the table,
pretending the tablecloth is a tent,
practicing departures; where a dim
brown bird dazzled by light
has flown into the windowpane
and lies stunned on the pavement--
it was never simple, even for birds,
this business of nests.
The innocent eye sees nothing, Auden says,
repeating what the snake told Eve,
what Eve told Adam, tired of gardens,
wanting the fully lived life.
But passion happens like an accident
I could let the dough spill over the rim
of the bowl, neglecting to punch it down,
neglecting the child who waits under the table,
the mild tears already smudging her eyes.
We grow in such haphazard ways.
Today I feel wiser than the bird.
I know the window shuts me in,
that when I open it
the garden smells will make me restless.
And I have banked the fires of my body
into a small domestic flame for others
to warm their hands on for a while.


Anonymous submission

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

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  • Scarlett Treat (2/8/2006 5:22:00 PM)

    How you have captured the rising of life within us, the desire to escape our bounds, like the rising dough. And the garden, bursting to grow expresses it again. Love this poem. Linda (Report) Reply

  • Raynette Eitel (2/2/2006 9:57:00 PM)

    Oh Linda, you have captured what we do as young mothers, or as women with a home to tend and others making demands on our life. What a lovely image.

    Raynette (Report) Reply

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