Briefly it enters, and briefly speaks

I am the blossom pressed in a book, found again after two hundred years. . . .
I am food on the prisoner’s plate. . . .
I am water rushing to the wellhead, filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .
I am the stone step, the latch, and the working hinge. . . .
I am there in the basket of fruit presented to the widow. . . .

I am the one whose love overcomes you,
already with you when you think to call my name. . . .

Jane Kenyon was born this day in 1947

Carvaggio