Litany, by Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

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 just 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'm 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.

The poem as recited by an enthusiastic three year old.

And by the author on City Arts and Lectures.
This is the same poet who wrote "Taking off Emily Dickinson's Clothes" which you will have to google yourself.

Remember- You’re not managing an inconvenience, you’re raising a human being. (Kittie Frantz)

You know how sometimes you try to make something from a recipe, say, bread, but no matter how many times you try, you just find that it isn't in you to be a good baker? Other people have the touch, the time, the special knack, whatever it is, that it takes to make delicious bread. You like their bread better. They are good at it. Hooray for everyone. They make good bread, you like to eat good bread. We are all happy.

This is how I feel sometimes about children. Not that I want to eat them, of course. Other people are so damn good at making them-- not just the *making* part, but the raising part, I mean. I don't think I have the innate skills that it would have taken to make good ones.

And what is more tragic than preferring other people to the ones you made yourself?