by Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.

You are the dew on the morning grass,
and the burning wheel of the sun.

You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not
the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.

And you are certainly not
the pine-scented air.

There is no way that you are
the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are
the fish under the bridge,

maybe even the pigeon
on the general's head,

but you are not even close
to being the field
of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror
will show that you are neither
the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery
of the world,

that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be
the shooting star,

the evening paper
blowing down an alley,

and the basket of chestnuts
on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.

But don't worry,
I am not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.

You will always be the bread and the knife,

not to mention the crystal goblet
and—somehow—the wine.

Executive Director,
Creative Direction
Stylist assistant
Melinda Tarbell
Mikayla Henry