Look there—something rests on your hand and even
lingers, though the wind all around is asking
it to leave you. Passing the windy passage,
you have been chosen.

Seed. Like dust or thistle it sits so lightly
that your hand while holding the trust of silk gets
gentle. Seed like hope has come, making stillness.
Wish, in the quiet.

If I stood there—stopped by a windy passage—
staring at my hand—which is always open—
hopeful, maybe, not to compel you, I’d wish
only for patience.

First collected in Eve (Story Line Press, 1997, Reprinted by Carnegie Mellon University Press Contemporary Classics Poetry Series, 2011)