A woman’s soft skin, I have it—
not on my hands, which thrill
to garden and spread shine—but
soft I am in neck and belly and the long
slow reaches of my side body.
I hum like a woman, and
laugh like a woman and weep
for beauty, for sorrow.
In the early evening,
I leave on the lawn
the long curving shadow of a woman.
Sometimes I even fool myself—
but sometimes I remember
I am also sand and elephant,
skylark and sunflower,
blood orange and button,
wind,
and the stillness after.