Biologists demand a garland
of children, but I have neglected
any theory of origins.
My oven holds another cake,
fluid with cream, a complex miracle
of light and language, Miles Davis
on the radio, friends coming by.
Meaning-filled, the rich batter.
My eggs surrender—no babies;
I do not mind the empty house.
I choose the bowl of sky, abundant
songs of the night garden.
Stir fine rain into honey; pour
into a warm nest. Now sleep if you can.
Grate nutmeg outside the windows;
the birds will never leave.