Of all of my simple treasures told,
my silvers, golds, unmentioned stones from rivers, smooth,
and where the air once swept my garden bare--
the small corners in dusty, myriad rooms;

i have kept stray coins, and shards of colored glass,
i've packed promises in well-shut boxes, closed;
i have buried every secret in the briar patch
yet never shall I whisper, even here, of whose

name is written inside the kitchen drawers,
and on the hearth of this house, where the fires stroke
my hands in winter; Lord, who knows
where the sun-charred leaves of autumn fall,
or the petals of a distant summer's rose?