It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the women sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from a drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wine glass, weary of holding wine.
Source: Jane Kenyon. Collected Poems. Saint Paul: Graywolf Printing, 2005. Print.