Mine is the wooden bowl
and the drink drawn by the hand-pump
from the spring; and the slippers left
by the kitchen door for entry into the house—
So when I come in from the heat,
I do not argue with the darkening
pages of the day when this body
wants nothing more than to sink
into the folds of a sheet,
an envelope of water, a book
held open at the mark as quietly
as a wood satyr’s wings.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.