Волны

           Thecartgrowsgraduallylargerasitcomesalongtheroad.Thesheepgatherinthemiddleofthefield.Thebirdsgatherinthemiddleoftheroad--theyneednotflyyet.Thewoodsmokerises.Thestarknessofthedawnisgoingoutofit.Nowthedaystirs.Colourreturns.Thedaywavesyellowwithallitscrops.Theearthhangsheavybeneathme.

           ’ButwhoamI,wholeanonthisgateandwatchmysetternoseinacircle?Ithinksometimes(Iamnottwentyyet)Iamnotawoman,butthelightthatfallsonthisgate,onthisground.Iamtheseasons,Ithinksometimes,January,May,November;themud,themist,thedawn.Icannotbetossedabout,orfloatgently,ormixwithotherpeople.Yetnow,leaningheretillthegateprintsmyarm,Ifeeltheweightthathasformeditselfinmyside.Somethinghasformed,atschool,inSwitzerland,somehardthing.Notsighsandlaughter,notcirclingandingeniousphrases;notRhoda’sstrangecommunicationswhenshelookspastus,overourshoulders;norJinny’spirouetting,allofapiece,limbsandbody.WhatIgiveisfell.Icannotfloatgently,mixingwithotherpeople.Ilikebestthestareofshepherdsmetintheroad;thestareofgipsywomenbesideacartinaditchsucklingtheirchildrenasIshallsucklemychildren.Forsooninthehotmiddaywhenthebeeshumroundthehollyhocksmyloverwillcome.Hewillstandunderthecedartree.TohisonewordIshallanswermyoneword.WhathasformedinmeIshallgivehim.