I am the blossom pressed in a book, br found again after two hundred years. . . . br br I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . . br br When the young girl who starves br sits down to a table br she will sit beside me. . . . br br I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . . br br I am water rushing to the wellhead, br filling the pitcher until it spills. . . . br br I am the patient gardener br of the dry and weedy garden. . . . br br I am the stone step, br the latch, and the working hinge. . . . br br I am the heart contracted by joy. . . br the longest hair, white br before the rest. . . . br br I am there in the basket of fruit br presented to the widow. . . . br br I am the musk rose opening br unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . . br br I am the one whose love br overcomes you, already with you br when you think to call my name. . . .