How did I come to be
this particular version of me,
and not some other, this morning
of purple delphiniums blooming,
to meet these three dogs
asleep at my feet, and not others—
this soft summer morning,
sitting on her screened porch
become ours, our wind chime,
singing of wind and time,
feeding bees and filling me—
and more abundance to come:
basil, tomatoes, zucchini.
What luck or fate, instinct,
or grace brought me here?—
in shade, beneath hidden stars,
a soft, summer morning,
seeing with my whole being,
love made visible.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
You are not fifteen, or twelve, or seventeen— You are a hundred wild centuries And…
This is what you need to know: you need to know that otters wrap themselves…
It’s ripe, the melon by our sink. Yellow, bee-bitten, soft, it perfumes the house too…
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