There's nothing I can't find under there.
Voices in the trees, the missing pages
of the sea.
Everything but sleep.
And night is a river bridging
the speaking and listening banks,
a fortress, undefended and inviolate.
There's nothing that won't fit under it:
fountains clogged with mud and leaves,
the houses of my childhood.
And night begins when my mother's fingers
let go of the thread
they've been tying and untying
to touch toward our fraying story's hem.
Night is the shadow of my father's hands
setting the clock for resurrection.
Or is it the clock unraveled, the numbers flown?
Ther's nothing that hasn't found home there:
discarded wings, lost shoes, a broken alphabet.
Everything but sleep. And night begins
with the first beheading
of the jasmine, its captive fragrance
rid at last of burial clothes.
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Comments about this poem (Pillow by Li-Young Lee )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(September 25, 1930 – May 10, 1999)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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