Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Denise Levertov comes stepping westward quietly, speaking to us

There is no savor
more sweet, more salt

than to be glad to be
what, woman,

and who, myself,
I am, a shadow

that grows longer as the sun
moves, drawn out

on a thread of wonder.
If I bear burdens

they begin to be remembered
as gifts, goods, a basket

of bread that hurts
my shoulders but closes me

in fragrance.  I can
eat as I go.

No comments:

Post a Comment