Because this is the passing

and not the dream, I slough off

this ribbon and cross the cherry orchard

in a single breaststroke,
                         moonstroke.

You made the ribbon a river.

You dipped my night in Egyptian blue.

What is the cat, the bowl, the lamp
                                             to you?

Everything is familiar.

You move through the world
                   with the exultation
of a pharaoh in his tomb.

But I leave house and country.

I greet the hedgewitch rubbing in the hazel.

I league with the beeches.

My knees,
          which once reasoned
with your most unreasonable requests,
are mud-loved.

I look upon the sea

because familiarity and truth

are two women gazing in two wells.

I wear my best dress.