Here in another country is the garden shed of my daughter. Here is the shelf of antique pitchers, the leaning broom, the stem-scattered table, the sharp snips and twine for the composing of dahlias. Here her deft hands make bouquets for the roadside stand, the weekend brides. All that is here now, and myself gazing, came from before. The retrospection of old age. If, almost, she had not been born! The pinching back of my life in bud was, also, a slowly opening bestowal. And myself here at her table, arranging words as she comes, laden, from the flower field.