The dawns are numbered, as I am. Though I remain ever
after in a state of surprise, like a child, dumbfounded by
the word “Enter.” My name is small, a garden-mint, a
sprig to decorate a plate. I rarely try to speak for others,
and consider the words I say, not like the mockingbird
who repeats banalities, not like the robin, habitual, not
like the rabbits who are silent but move loquaciously.
Clack of dried pea pods, cloud of mosquitoes, one can
have too many roses in the house. The world is loud,
anguished by its processes. Though perhaps it is wrong
to settle, as I have settled, for the simple meal, the cutting
garden, the circumscribed stroll by the pond. When what
I want is to sing something monumental. My family is
rough. I wish I could smooth them. I have been lucky.
Not married out to trash men. But while I sleep, the
great winds come. Spruce forest. Pine forest. Fir forest.
A door opens. One slams shut.