Last one.
"Three Times My Life has Opened."
Three times in my life has opened:
once into darkness and rain.
Once into what the body carries at all times within it
and starts to remember each time it enters the act of love.
Once to the fire that holds all.
These three were not different.
You will recognize what I am saying, or you will not.
But outside my window all day a maple
has stepped from her leaves like a woman in love with winter,
dropping the colored silks.
Neither are we different in what we know.
There is a door.
It opens, then it is closed.
But a slip of light stays like a scrap of unreadable paper left
on the floor, or the one red leaf the snow releases in March.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]