The
Writer |
Richard
Wilbur |
In
her room at the prow of the house |
Where
light breaks, and the windows are tossed with
linden |
My
daughter is writing a story |
I
pause in the stairwell, hearing |
From
her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys |
Like
a chain hauled over a gunwale. |
Young
as she is, the stuff |
Of
her life is a great cargo and some of it is
heavy: |
I
wish her a lucky passage. |
But
now it is she who pauses, |
As
if to reject my thought and its easy figure. |
A
stillness greatens, in which |
The
whole house seems to be thinking, |
And
then she is at it again with a bunched clamor |
Of
strokes, and again is silent. |
I
remember the dazed starling |
Which
was trapped in that very room, two years ago, |
How
we stole in, lifted a sash |
And retreated,
not to affright it; |
And how for
a helpless hour, through the crack of the door |
We
watched the sleek, wild, dark |
And
iridescent creature |
Batter
against the brilliance, drop like a glove |
To
the hard floor, or the desk-top, |
And
wait then, humped and bloody, |
For
the wits to try it again; and how our spirits |
Rose
when, suddenly sure, |
It
lifted off from a chair-back, |
Beating
a smooth course for the right window |
And
clearing the sill of the world. |
It
is always a matter, my darling |
Of
life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish |
What
I wished you before, but harder. |
