Again the clay, again the seed and womb
And cradle, pregnant by and with herself;
Again the shell: the uterus in bloom;
Again descendant from the leafy shelf
The seedling, memory in shallow birth
Sprung only from the tree she will become
Roots where she bent her elbow from the earth:
The hardy hand that holds the apple's thumb
Again the root, again the stem and breast
And pram; what loves the tree if not the sprout?
The hand-me-downs again are hemmed and dressed
Again the branches flourish up and out
The poet, reaching skyward now as then
Is just a little bough again
Is just a little bough again, again