Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
1FROM THE NURSERY
When I was born, you waited
There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .
I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .