<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=447881" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Meditation By The Stove</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have banked the fires<br>of my body<br>into a small but steady blaze<br>here in the kitchen<br>where the dough has a life of its own,<br>breathing under its damp cloth<br>like a sleeping child;<br>where the real child plays under the table,<br>pretending the tablecloth is a tent,<br>practicing departures; where a dim<br>brown bird dazzled by light<br>has flown into the windowpane<br>and lies stunned on the pavement--<br>it was never simple, even for birds,<br>this business of nests.<br>The innocent eye sees nothing, Auden says,<br>repeating what the snake told Eve,<br>what Eve told Adam, tired of gardens,<br>wanting the fully lived life.<br>But passion happens like an accident<br>I could let the dough spill over the rim<br>of the bowl, neglecting to punch it down,<br>neglecting the child who waits under the table,<br>the mild tears already smudging her eyes.<br>We grow in such haphazard ways.<br>Today I feel wiser than the bird.<br>I know the window shuts me in,<br>that when I open it<br>the garden smells will make me restless.<br>And I have banked the fires of my body<br>into a small domestic flame for others<br>to warm their hands on for a while. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Anonymous submission</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Linda+Pastan">Linda Pastan</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=447881" data-title="Meditation By The Stove de Linda Pastan" data-description="I have banked the fires of my body into a small but steady blaze here in the kitchen where the dough has a life of its own, breathing under its damp cloth like a sleeping child; where the real child plays under the table, pretending the tablecloth..."></div> </div> </div>

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