Evening Poetry, August 18


by Jane Kenyon

You always belonged here.

You were theirs, certain as a rock.

I’m the one who worries

if I fit in with the furniture

and the landscape.

But I “follow too much

the devices and desires of my own heart.”

Already the curves in the road

are familiar to me, and the mountain

in all kinds of light,

treating all people the same.

And when I come over the hill,

I see the house, with its generous

and firm proportions, smoke

rising gaily from the chimney.

I feel my life start up again,

like a cutting when it grows

the first pale and tentative

root hair in a glass of water.

You can find this poem in Collected Poems.

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