Meditation on "There is only one of everything"

All day I have thought I was empty--empty of even the ghost of desire--
but the smell of herbs and water simmering fills me with longing for the life I have.

There is a woman at my church who looks like Margaret Atwood
(In my head, I say, Oh, Margaret Atwood is in her usual place)
I feel Atwood-like, smelling the simmering herbs:

I can even say it,
though only once and it won't

last: I want this. I want
this. 

There is  only one of everything, isn't there, Margaret?

This is my life, this is the life I love:
The herbs and the simmering
The people in their places
The poetry and the song
The hot and thick afternoon air I love to hate
Even the burning toast; even the burning toast
Is mine, is me, and I love it.