By Josephine Miles

When with the skin you do acknowledge drought,

The dry in the voice, the lightness of feet, the fine

Flake of the heat at every level line;

When with the hand you learn to touch without

Surprise the spine for the leaf, the prickled petal,

The stone scorched in the shine, and the wood brittle;

Then where the pipe drips and the fronds sprout

And the foot-square forest of clover blooms in sand,

You will lean and watch, but never touch with your hand.

September 1934

• Nature

Poet Bio

Josephine Miles was born in Chicago but spent most of her life in California. She developed rheumatoid arthritis at a young age and was often confined to a wheelchair, which she claimed allowed her time to write. Not only a skilled poet, Miles was also a brilliant scholar; she spent her career teaching at the University of California, Berkeley, and was the first woman to earn tenure in the English Department. See More By This Poet

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