Ten days of rain shatter on the holly
that guards my window.
Its lucid buds stay on the points like stars.
I’ve been wishing so long
To be washed out with the tide:
The river will rear up, and call me its sister,
and the geese that gather
in vulgar prayer beside the water
will gather me too;
at first bowed, the misshapen daughter,
I will rise up, borne by the river's arm,
which holds in its palm
a hundred cups of sun.