Portrait of a Figure near Water

Rebuked, she turned and ran

uphill to the barn. Anger, the inner

arsonist, held a match to her brain.

She observed her life: against her will

it survived the unwavering flame.

The barn was empty of animals.

Only a swallow tilted

near the beams, and bats

hung from the rafters

the roof sagged between.

Her breath became steady

where, years past, the farmer cooled

the big tin amphoræ of milk.

The stone trough was still

filled with water: she watched it

and received its calm.

So it is when we retreat in anger:

we think we burn alone

and there is no balm.

Then water enters, though it makes

no sound.