The untamed heart to hand I brought
And fixed the wild and wandering thought.
—Aphra Behn, “A Thousand Martyrs”
This, too, shall bring forth life, the pulse
conversing in a steady wrist,
the quiet hours that give the psalm,
the annual bloom, the shopping list.
This, too, is life, though it is calm.
The island is hospitable
to the largest imaginings.
On bridle paths, the trees a wall,
the walk turns up unnoticed things.
This, too, is life, though it is small.
The airplane draws the eye upward
but what goes up comes down again,
as vapors rise to fall as snow.
Light falls, how swift a fall, to land.
This, too, is life, though it is low.