Round of Hours

I who might have traveled to a wider plane Who cannot boast of seeing pyramids Or skies, above some greener fields, or richer Fruited — I love the meticulous jogging on of time. (Dull time to some) for setting silver at dusk About a linen, clean and neatly mended. As if a greater Presence comes each night To supper, I love the placing on of goblet Or of cup . . . the plate of bread . . . the aroma Of the yield made from a harvest, stronger Hands than mine knew how to tend . . .

I love the comfort of the crystal windows Not elegantly yet with color curtained — The tassels dangling from the leveled shades Dividing with their perpendiculars A saucy street . . . unless with gathering dusk I let the first star of a moon-shell in.

Yet something in the plodding round of hours Seems silently an altar that I serve. Confused by many worlds, and so much doing I light the lamps, and wait to share the wine . . .