I lifted the sponge
and touched the soap—
would it be gone by September?
It had been my closest companion,
it knew me well, and I felt about it
the same, though we never spoke
and I did not know where it came from
before I found it, all the while I was walking
it sat in the dark room where white light
came in through the lace curtains,
and when I came back from my walk
with the smell of wet, chopped wood
being dragged over pine needles
clinging to my clothes, my hair,
it was there, only smaller,
imperceptibly smaller, which is
the way it was made to grow—
by getting smaller—
and if this be the point
where soap begins, how
can I say it will not keep growing
after it goes away?
I lifted the soap,
I lifted my long terrible arm
and turned on the water.
--Mary Ruefle, 2004