In an acreage beyond infinity's own breath Amid live wood I will make room for your child I will make safe Even the wind against each thin glass pane
I will make food To spawn the growth of your child's heart In answer to the shock of being given fingers, eyes, a sense of hearing and desire Even if weather and my thoughts are slow And sadness shows in threadbare stories I will meld the vast shine of your continuo Into the garden that you wanted For your child each moment of the dreamed-of present tense sheila e. murphy
