I am always working hard to be a poet.
I never lift a finger to be a priestess.
I do not know whom I am, truly.

This is an entirely deep subject.
Dreaming of birth, of giving birth,
I hear Jane Kenyon. She says,

“Let Evening Come.” I am creating
some emblem of change in my mind
over and over again. I tell you Jane,

I can never let go and accept evening as the end
point. Ever. Yet you did. In the meantime, Jane,
how have you written poems with hundreds of

Daffodils? Is this how you call in the evening?
She answers, I do it because I love them. It is
not a secret.

I hear Jane call in winged songs of the ages.
I beg her to alight on my earlobe like pink silk
on a branch of the mimosa tree.