my white room

i never saw a moor—
i never saw the sea—
yet know i how the heather looks
and what a billow be.



let the fox go back to its sandy den.
let the wind die down.

let the shed go black inside.
let evening come.

to the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

monday, january 20, 2003

jane kenyon

feeling myself like its me, finally

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