Sister Poetry

One shouting, glory tree enough—

Or, better still,

One branch.

One singing, petaled  branch enough—

Or better still,

One flower.

Beauty spare, lean, whittled to a size

I

Can contain

Is pain

Sufficient.

By world, when you turn prodigal,

Spilling splendor in such riotous array,

I can only close

The shutters

 Of

My

Spirit

As against a gathering storm,

And move cautiously away!